Laurelin K. Hardin-Pietri

House Without A Home

“You’re my property. I own you, and I have government papers to prove it.” These words I think about everyday. I see her red, splotchy complexion. I hear her slurred words and dragging steps. I hear her slamming herself repeatedly into my bedroom door, BANG BANG BANG, consequently breaking the lock mechanism. I feel my bed shaking as she bursts in, clutching the door to keep herself upright. I can smell the sweat and oil on her face, and I can smell the alcohol.