Remember when you played your first song on the piano?
Why are all the keys broken now?
The music has started to sound like screams.
You hear it everywhere, don't you?
It scratches at the back of your brain, until
all your thoughts are drowned in blood
telling you to cave in.
Your father's worried,
about those bruises on your knees. He didn't raise
a *****.
(He didn't raise anybody.)
He'll scream it, so the neighbors feel uncomfortable.
"Well, I think you mighta, Dad.
Because right after we ****, they all leave."
He'll start yelling,
drinking.
You'll be the example no one needed to set.
We all know we're not supposed to
leave our still-beating hearts
in the boy who doesn't want us'
mailbox. You just
had to do it didn't you?
You had to rip our family apart,
just to know you could make somebody
feel something.