I often wonder if you
 remember the falling.
 It felt like coming home to me.
 Until the inevitable
 came like the change of seasons,
 we turned
 unrecognizable.
  
 The memory of what was
 comes to me in flashbacks.
 We grew up together in
 hushed,
 private moments
 navigating the wax and wane
 of an intimacy too mature
 for what we could know of it.
  
 I was 13 the first time you
 threatened it.
 I was 14 when you really tried.
  
 The in between is what I remember most.
 The scent of your
 black Pink Floyd hoodie,
 smelling of your mom's cigarette smoke
 and Tide detergent.
  
 Like something out of our control
 what was once supportive and pure
 turned toxic.
 Expectations became chains.
 You told our friends stories.
 They called me a whore.
  
 I learned to lie and manipulate.
 Dishonesty
 felt safer than
 truth-telling.
 The alternative
 lead to an abuse
 I still hear my own
 voice use against me
 13 years later.
  
 Slowly I
 lost myself in the sensation
 of becoming nothing
 beyond the pleasing
 and the apologies.
  
 Love and safety became
 foreign and unattainable.
 I sometimes avoid turning my
 phone on ring
it reminds me of the time you called
 so I’d hear every sound
 of what you said I led you to do.
  
 Now I exist in nights
 that come
 after a day of supporting others
 and I wonder if love
 is something
 only other people can experience.
  
 You tried to escape life
 and left me holding the responsibility
 in hands that I still
 wash raw trying
 to make peace with the shame.
  
 I try to find new ways
 in relating to others
 and still find myself
 staring into
 hands
 that do what they can
 with what they know.
  
 Now they aim to heal
 rather than defend,
 to absorb love
  
 and yet
  
 I was taught to swallow whole
 the blame
 to hold the responsibility
 to jump to conclusions
 before I am surprised with
 another blow.
  
I'm now just beginning to
 understand
that my home is meant to be
 stable
 and consistent in its
 giving and receiving.
 My home is meant to
 grow rather than deplete.
  
 What am I to do
 when home
 crumbles
 from the very touch
 of my own hands
 scratching
 at the surface
 of love?