wrong place

 

You strive to make this place feel wrong

Not your hands, not your actions

But your own dismissive ignorance

You strive to make me leave

As long as it's his hands

On the remote

The screwdriver

Tossing my art in the closet

Those easily broken stretch canvases

Replacing our pictures on the wall

Than you have done nothing wrong

You are still the carrying mother

Who ignores the phone

When it's your child's name on screen

Because it's not you

It's him, and you've done no wrong

You strive to make this place feel

As though none belong here

But him and you

And maybe on week nights

Our little brother

 

Author's Note

Cp. 7:59AM Mon 06/02/08 'That's What You Get' Paramour lonely, sad, I don't belong here, tired emotionally (Typed, House)