In this household
in this household, we tend not to hold onto anything.
Onto nothing but ourselves
in this household, we tend not to talk about feelings.
we grew up with silence as our mother tongue.
we mourn in silence,
we rejoice in silence,
we regret in silence,
we throw out wrath in silence,
we were disappointed and we fell silent.
in this household, we tend not to walk into each other’s business.
however, with a huge lump in our throats,
we’re still manage to play hide and seek.
i hid the pen,
they seek the truth to be tore.
i hide the pain,
they were lying bare in front of my bedroom door.
i hide right under my veins
and i shrieked while mending wounds on the bleak bathroom floor.
in this household, we tend not to unravel grief and put up an act within four walls around the house.
we screamed so loud that all we heard were a whisper of misery vow.
we cried so hard that the only thing streaming down our faces was a series of tale of woe.
we bury ourselves in chimera that we have left was nothing but mask to borrow.
in this household, we tend not to fall asleep unless upon the damp pillow
with a heavy heart.
just to wake up facing death hanging low;
that there is no home in this house we tend to hold.
in this household, we tend not to hold onto anything.
Onto anything but ourselves.
