Fragile walls of plastic and eggshells
I never wanted a man
Whose words are heavy and slurred,
Drowned in the alcohol
He drinks without a word.
I had high hopes back then—
No prince or knight in gold,
Just a patient, gentle hand
For my own to hold.
A compassionate man, a loving fool,
A doting father to our own.
Yet cruel fates have left me here,
Sitting in this house, alone.
My kids wreak havoc in the house,
My daughter playing doctor now,
My son, her patient on the floor—
Safe from the storm, somehow.
Unaware that all they have is play,
Beside a tilting dollhouse ledge,
A fragile home of plastic walls
Teetering right upon the edge.
Yet through the grief, a quiet peace:
Thank god they only know of joy.
Even though I know too well,
It’s a peace he will destroy.
My eyes keep darting to the door,
Waiting for his heavy tread,
The kids call 'Father' now,
The man to whom I am wed.
Fate is a cruel, binding thing;
It locked me in with no escape.
No wings to fly, no ground to hold,
No independent path to shape.
But just when darkness settled in,
And I had thought I'd had enough,
Life brought me two small, shining stars,
Woven from a gentler stuff.
The front door clicks, and there he stands.
My eldest looks up from her play,
Already fluent in his steps,
Reading the shadows of the day.
Her small eyes dart to meet his face,
Gauging the shifting, heavy air—
Will he be the loving father now?
Or the monster waiting there?
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