my body is a House
my body is a House
you broke into.
you smashed the window,
threw open the door—
you stomped through
every room with muddy boots,
and rearranged my furniture.
you flicked ashes on the smooth pine
of my innocent floor,
burning holes as you went.
after you left,
I tried to tell Her
She was safe.
I scrubbed the walls—
replaced the window,
changed the locks.
I returned the furniture
to its proper place
and covered the holes
with an area rug.
but when car lights
swing through my windows
at night—I feel your hands
at the keyhole,
and I know
what happens once
can happen again,
and how can I
stop it?
my body is a House,
and I can still smell
the stench of your violation.
my walls crawl with memory.
no paint can cover the smell
of cigarette smoke
penetrating every room.
(at least now
I know where most of the holes
in the pine planks are.)
my body is a House,
and where have I hidden
myself?
In the attic—
cramped and dark.
the heat and fear
make my sweat stink.
but I can’t come out.
not now. not ever.
—even with the locks changed.
because my body is a house,
and it’s clear
it’s not my House
anymore.
As some of you probably already know, I am a victim of Child Sexual Abuse. Two and a half years ago, my significant and violating birth trauma re-ignited some of my long dormant pain associated with living in a body that felt like a crime scene—and that is when I wrote this poem.
I wish this was the sort of poem that wouldn’t make sense to anyone—that it would be the sort of poem that was so far from your own experience you couldn’t identify with it at all. But I know that’s not the case. And wishing will not make it so.
So, dear reader, I share this piece of my soul with you—and also a promise: your house can become your home again.
xoxo
Gracie