I Won’t Be Coming Home for Christmas or Thanksgiving or New Years

Home is a four letter word and

my mother washed my mouth out for ones with just three like

Why

Are you drunk? It’s eight in the morning

Don't you love me? It’s not like I’m scorning.

Are the lights off? It’s clear you’re still using.

Don’t you leave him? It’s not like he’s helping.

I tried to make the house a home with hand turkeys,

Prompting the inhabitants to share what they are thankful for,

As we sat, plates full of donated food,

Trash can full of bought bottles.

I went first, hoping to ease the air,

I’m thankful for you all and God and mashed potatoes,

But for once, they stayed quiet.

So no, I won’t be coming home for Christmas,

or Thanksgiving or New Years.

Home is not four walls encompassing a nuclear

Family is not four suckers forced together

By some higher power or God knows — maybe dictated by the stars or the weather

They meant to hurt each other or not really doesn’t matter

Of fact even if they didn’t it wouldn't heal the tattered

Hearts are so fragile; they’ve no foundations like houses.