if his hands are made of bullets...

There's a gun in the safe
three generations
under one roof
and a quiet violence
in the air

He threatens suicide
he doesn't get his way
so they bend
and break and comply
until someone finds
a backbone
and we do it all again

She hid the keys
to the safe
and tomorrow
someone might bury
the ammo
if we can get to it
without his hovering

Because my father
uses love like a weapon
and I wonder what other
threats he's made
quietly over the years
to keep her down
to keep her bound
under the guise
that it's her place
and she'd have nothing
without him

So today I wait
in bated silence
for a phone call
to let me know
everyone back home
has survived the night

There's a gun in the safe
and hidden keys
and no one knows
if he's got a spare