This House is Haunted

The eggshells on the linoleum, a quiet, crunchy sound;

I know the map of every creak, I know not to be found.

I hold my breath when I hear footsteps in the hall outside my door;

I've become a ghost inside the life I had before.

He's got a temper like the vicious weather, humid, hot, and quick,

and I'm the lightnin' rod that's always gonna make it stick.

He says he loves me when his knuckles aren't acquainted with the wall;

he says I'm everything, and then he makes me feel so small.

THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE MAN WHO'S STILL ALIVE,

A PRISON I'VE BEEN GIVEN WHERE ONLY HALF OF ME SURVIVES.

THIS ISN'T LOVE, IT'S VIOLENCE DRESSED UP IN A PRETTY LIE;

MY BODY IS A BORDER AND YOU'RE NOT WELCOME HERE TONIGHT!

The men in suits in the capitol, they got a lot to say

about the borders of my body, what I'm doin' anyway.

They're just a different kind of violence, in a suit and in a tie;

a different kind of "daddy" who believes I shouldn't try

to own the skin I'm in, to own the choice I make.

They want to lock the door and then decide who gets the key

to take my future. But this house ain't theirs, this body ain't their state;

it's the last line of defiance and they're standin' at the gate.

THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE GHOSTS OF OLD MEN'S LAWS,

THEY'RE SCRATCHIN' AT THE WINDOWS WITH THEIR SELF-RIGHTEOUS CLAWS.

THIS ISN'T FREEDOM, IT'S A CAGE DRESSED UP IN RED AND WHITE;

MY BODY IS A BORDER AND YOU'RE NOT WELCOME HERE TONIGHT!

I'm not a rib. I'm not your vessel. I'm not your property.

I'm not a test. I'm not a consensus. I'm not your debate.

I am a fortress. I am my own state. I am my own. I am my own.

THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED BY THE MAN WHO'S STILL ALIVE,

A PRISON I'VE BEEN GIVEN WHERE ONLY HALF OF ME SURVIVES;

THIS ISN'T LOVE, IT'S VIOLENCE DRESSED UP IN A PRETTY LIE;

MY BODY IS A SOVEREIGN STATE AND YOU ARE NOT WELCOME.