This house (A poem )

It’s springtime, and I’m tracking mud through the kitchen.

I’d just been barefoot in my mother’s garden,

With my toes gnawing at the soaked earth.

Desperately hungry for something not carpet.

My hands are caked from clawing at weeds

As if my soul were tangled in the roots.

But no, It wasn’t there…

Nor anywhere in this damned house…

Now I’m tracking mud through the kitchen.

I’m so tired of trying to prove I exist.

If I were my mother, I’d yell at me.

I’d spent all morning scrubbing stains with the spoiled mop.

Dog hair dripping from the sponge like a drain clog. 

But Now my gruelling work is undone,

As I brush flakes of dried earth onto the laminate. 

No…

No one will yell at me.

The cat vomit still sits on the carpet from a week ago.

I’m just tracking mud through the kitchen.

I’m just trying to prove I belong here.

This damned house…