20 leaving the bathroom

leaving the bathroom

I heard the bell ring as loud as a gong

as he ripped into me, angry gnashing teeth

 

about my attitude, my disobedience,

that it was his house,

his rules and as long as I lived there,

I had to abide by them.

 

If I wanted to act unruly,

then I needed to leave.

 

I was old enough now that

he didn’t have to deal

with my s**t, take care of me,

or tolerate me.

 

I needed to shape up

or ship out.

 

I needed to pay the full rent again

and give him money for lunch, for gas,

his pot, and new clothes because

I owed it to him from birth.

 

I owed him respect for leaving

his body in the heat of the moment.

 

At the expense of my wellbeing,

at the price of a genuine home,

at the cost of a functionality,

I owed it all.

 

After what felt like hours

listening to his raised voice,

 

the stern talking of my mother,

the bitter glances thrown like knives

to me by my brothers,

I was finally allowed to go to bed.

 

I spent a week or so dwindling

my things into piles for the

 

Salvation Army or Goodwill.

I threw out things I held dear,

gifts I was given,

art supplies, CDs I had made.

 

I was willing to minimize the value

of my life into heaps.

 

I even looked at my first acoustic

and thought heavily about breaking it.

I chose not to, and looked at the piles,

my heart in each lump of material.

 

I would leave one way or another,

whether that was by being kicked out or dying.