Would you like to walk me home? I don’t think so.
Will you be safe to get home? I don’t think so.
Will be ok tonight?... tucked up, safe and sound?
I don’t think so.
You don’t want to know what goes on at my place.
You don’t want to meet my beloved brother.
You don’t want to stay over and discover another world.
You don’t want to know that there is no such thing
as a peck on the cheek or a pat on the bum…
Or a simple slice of bread…
…not in my house.
In my house, cuddling up is another dimension.
In my house, beaten and bloodied, the weak.
In my house, hiding is second nature.
Or I’ll leave the booze out, in the hope he will sleep.
But sleep, in my house, comes at a cost
And the payment is forced and always in debt.
If I turn from one, to seek consolation
All that happens is a trade off
One evil for another.
One beating for another bruising.
No justice for this body – vessel of corruption,
What does it matter who has me?
It’s all in the family.
(Absalom’s sister, Tamar, is a victim of incest. 2 Samuel 13)