The House That Grief Built

The day my mother left, the house grew cold,
Empty rooms, shadows bold.
I called for her, but silence fell,
A living hell created, a hollow place.

His hands that were once strong,
Now clenched in rage,
His love had died.
Whiskey breath, footsteps heavy on the floor,
A slurred goodbye, a slamming door,
A shattered plate, and I,
The one he chose to blame.

“Be a man,” he’d spit and sneer,
As if my heart could just forget.
But grief is like old skin or words unsaid,
It’s not a thing you shed.

Years have passed, but still—
I flinch at footstep’s call,
I wake from dreams too real,
I fear the love I feel.

And yet, somehow, I’ve grown tall.
Somehow, I remain—
Whole, not free, but standing still,
A boy who bends, yet wills no ill,
A child who lived beyond the pain.