There's a stranger in our home,

I think I knew him a long time ago,

and though sometimes I still recognise,

he's barely a reflection, a shell of the past;

he occupies our couch and messes up the kitchen,

he's in the air, atmosphere thick and heavy,

resting, pushing on our shoulders

till we cave in, ruling over our lives,

what we want or can do, not a choice;

a stranger infiltrated our home

and I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid

because this stranger's hand becomes solid

not to touch, not to caress, not to hold,

I can feel it on my face for days

(don't touch, don't touch, don't touch),

and this stranger doesn't speak,

but when he does, it's always this loud noise,

world-shattering, a dull unstoppable force,

and the scars from it even time won't heal,

always sitting under the surface,

waiting to be torn apart even more,

not a kind word to sooth the pain, only threats

(be quiet, be quiet, be quiet);

then he doesn't move or speak yet again,

only later in the night, after I wake up or come back home

does he repeat what he does, unpredictable,

always keeps us on our toes,

and how can I hate this stranger

and all that he represents

(because he does it wrong),

and still miss all that he once was

(though was he really different,

or what changed was only my perception

and he was always there but not quite,

on the edge of our lives, pushing in, damaging,

chipping away at our happiness

until it's come to this);

I just don't want to feel unsure,

trying to examine his every move

(uselsss, useless, useless),

expecting the worst every time,

he makes my skin crawl,

heart beating out of my chest, ready to flee;

don't want to be afraid in my own home,

made to feel stupid and small and insignificant

(stop, stop, stop),

I just want some peace and place to grow.