Landlocked.

It always happens
on an average day;
fixing the attic,
dust coating his arms
and insulation falling
from the ceiling.

Another project,
another reminder
of a broken home.

There is no balance
between the static
of his silence and the
release of his venom.

The day after is not
one of silence;

there is no palpable
tension.

It's almost as if
nothing occurred,

and I'm the only one
in severe distress.

I don't have a word
for it.

Trauma, too paramount.

PTSD, a disservice to those
who go through worse.

And I'm told not to worry,
not to listen to the echoes
of screaming I pull out of
the thin air.

But I swear, I'm not
making it up.

My nights are spent
attempting to reconcile
the enfeebled memories.

My heart - perpetually
walking on eggshells.

I always promised I would
never be like him.

And I'm not.

I just wish I could shake off
the debris he leaves behind
in his wake.

I wish I could move further
from his path,

but I'm landlocked here.