In That House

I am not a whole person.

Parts of me died in the house

I grew up in.

I am but a child trying to find their way back home.

The ghost of who I was is there –

playing on a tire swing,

sitting in the kitchen while her mother cooks pancakes,

dancing around her bedroom,

playing dolls with her cousin.

Hiding in her brother's room, filled with the scent of his cologne,

when the fighting gets too loud,

a tiny sanctuary in a warzone. 

She never hated her body,

or questioned her worth.

And yet, she believed the world might have

been better if she was never born,

because her brother told her so.

Life was still bittersweet

like breakfasts that summer before things fell apart,

like maple syrup and chocolate chips

before it burnt her soul and let the smoke fill her lungs.

Before she became someone 

still searching for her home