The House That Raised Me
I was built like the old oak table—
steady, bearing the weight
of voices heavier than mine.
They spoke of storms I didn't start,
left me to sweep the broken glass
as if my hands weren't small,
as if they hadn't splintered already.
They stitched a story from my silence,
painted me in wildfire shades,
called it defense when they fanned the
flames.
I learned early to bite my tongue,
to carry the years like a second spine.
The house rattled with its ghosts,
whispering of what I owed.
Gratitude, obedience, a softer voice—
but never a door of my own to close.
And it I ask for air, for space,
the walls moan in sorrow,
sagging beneath their own weight,
as if I had built them.
Copyright © Fiona Glenn-Keough | Year Posted 2025
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