its a house but is it my home?

as a child, it was my kingdom

sure, maybe i roamed these dark halls alone

and ran into old blood stains disguised as love

oh, as a child, the kitchen held feasts every thanksgiving 

my mama cussed every time she burnt the marshmallows on her yams

when she was laid to rest, my sister carried on that tradition

she would cook just like our mom, the stuffed turkey and pineapple ham

surely you can imagine that, such a good memory

so picture perfect that you would almost forget the agony

our bathroom was a dungeon where i covered my ears and closed my eyes

i'd lock that door and hide until things felt safe and i couldn't hear them fight

i remember once i stepped out when all i heard was peace

and realized it was because my father was choking my mother up against the kitchen sink

thinking back to when i grew my hair past my waist

maybe i was planning on escaping this place

it is odd how such a kingdom of strife and life

curled up and died to become a small cardboard box

it is odd how innocence is a filter on truth

i would love to find shelter in a place so familiar

but these walls bleed, these floors scream

paint chipping and peeling, floors shifting and squeaking

when i go to wipe my feet on the welcome mat

it trips me and says i'm old enough to run now

but my little dungeon has grown and spread

my father stays trapped in his own head 

i wonder what he remembers more

the kitchen with burnt yams or the kitchen that was a witness to war