Bitter Cup

This space isn’t a home, it’s a prison.

Beige walls creep closer, I am missing

pieces of my soul.

This roof is no shelter from the storm inside.

Hands around my throat, not a ghost to confide

in this black hole.

These words and tight embraces are a pseudo-affection.

I’ve grown used to false assurances, so excuse my hesitation

to trust your kindness.

Your traditions keep us silent, no room for critique.

Forks scrape our plates as we fill our mouths so we can’t speak

about what binds us.

Warm eyes and bright smiles thinly mask your disgust

as you cite an old book to tell me I must be crushed

by the weight of your shame.

And there are days when I forget that I am what you hate.

Like warm coffee on a cold morning, I’d love to believe this love is safe

but it’s not the same.

Then I am suffocated, as I hold my breath.

If you only knew who you were hugging, you might squeeze me to death

and think you did me a favor.

Your self-righteous face glares at me, as I am outcast

like I’m soft-serve in a cone and you asked

for a different flavor.

My mind is crying, stuck inside a memory.

In this house I am invisible because you refuse to see

that I’m valuable.

I’m tired of wallowing in this animus state;

this guilt was concocted but I won’t be force-fed straight

from your table.