THE UNWELCOMED GHOST IN A HOUSE OF STONE

The floorboards don’t greet me anymore; they measure my weight,

Counting the footsteps I waste in a house built on judgment and hate.

I sit in the shadows of rooms that were supposed to hold peace,

Waiting for screaming to end, waiting for tension to cease.

They call this a home, but the air is a suffocating thread,

Spun from the insults and whispers of things better left unsaid.

I am a stranger who sleeps under the roof of my own blood line,

Watching them trade off their favors, pretending that everything’s fine.

​My nephew sits dark in his cave, spinning his venom and lies,

Harassing the innocent, mocking the weak through his screen-lit eyes.

Yet he is the protected, the favored, the son who can do no wrong,

While I am the villain for standing my ground, for suffering too long.

He hurls the filthiest accusations, a weapon to tear at my skin,

Knowing the house will protect him, knowing he’ll always win.

My mother looks on with suspicion, police-profiling every move,

Demanding my silence, demanding a debt I shouldn’t have to prove.

She walks through these hallways of holy talk and pious, Sunday grace,

Then returns to the kitchen to spit her cold venom right in my face.

​And my dad sits back with his blanket threats, washing his hands of it all,

Treating the victim and parasite equal when we’re backed against the wall.

“Y’all both gotta leave,” his ultimatum rings out like an iron bell,

Punishing me for the fire when I’m the one burning in their hell.

They drink from their pride while I swallow the dust of their endless fight,

Leaving me broken, exhausted, and weeping in the dead of the night.

​I was already bleeding inside from a heart that was shattered to dust,

Trying to gather the pieces of broken devotion and murdered trust.

I was drowning in breakup grief, swimming in darkness so deep,

Praying for simple relief, praying for strength I could keep.

Then out of the digital void, an innocent voice broke the gloom—

A child’s clean wisdom that reached through the walls of this heavy room,

Telling me leave it to God, reminding my spirit to stay alive,

Giving me one small thread of light so I could somehow survive.

​And yet they took even that sweet moment and turned it to mud and shame,

Dragging my quiet salvation through their sick, twisted game.

I am sick of the commode complaints, the petty squabbles, the daily decay,

The endless cycle of fake calm before the next storm blows away.

​So let the walls shake their warning. Let the foundation split wide.

I hear the house telling me go, and I won’t be buried inside.

I will retreat to my chamber, lock out the noise and the dark,

Focusing only on hours, on saving my soul and my spark.

I am not your butler, your punchbag, your scapegoat, or slave;

I am packing my life from the edges of this living grave.

​No more walking on eggshells. No more begging for room.

I am choosing the door before you can mandate my doom.

The gravity here is too heavy, the atmosphere poisoned and black,

I am stepping out into the night, and I am never, ever looking back.