When I say privilege, please understand what I mean.
It's the way your anger spills out like rainwater from
a roof that's seen better days - neglectful hands and
assumptions that you've skillfully crafted your home.
But your home means nothing when you've threatened
to leave it multiple times, when you leave the memories
for us to clean, as if we could sweep them from the fibers
of our bones and banish them to never return.
I hear your voice raise for no reason other than to make
yourself feel important - the plants I've tended
to lovingly over the months recoil at the sound,
my fingers seek to anchor themselves to something sturdy.
You've never explicitly kept me from leaving,
but if I try to break away without your support in all affairs,
I know you will either drown out my wishes or write me
out of your life - and maybe, I wouldn't mind.
