This house still feels—
like a place I am,
Rather than a place I live.
What without those memories of you blowing me on the staircase,
Or that time another you snuck in the window,
That time we heard the owl under the cover of covers,
Or that stupid spaghetti dinner I insisted on making you,
The time you called me in the middle of the night,
After your dad threw you against the wall.
The time we lost our child,
Or the time I scarred your back by fucking you against the wall.
The only real memory I have here,
Is the email you sent me,
Telling me you were marrying him.
Forgive me if I don’t hold onto that.
