The fire started in my parent’s room
They tried to shut the door
So my little brother and I wouldn’t know.
The smoke went through the cracks and down the hallway. My father was the one who lit the match,
Even when he promised he wouldn’t.
But like I’ve always been told,
“An addict is always an addict”
and my mother just couldn’t take it anymore.
The fire spread to my bedroom first,
Burning all my childhood memories,
Leaving scars and smoke in my lungs
That would be there forever.
Did they know what they were doing to me? My little brother acts like it never happened. But I know he wishes his role model
Never lit that match.
How could the man who taught him how to play baseball Ever do such a thing?
My little brother stopped playing baseball
And I moved out of my bedroom
But some things will never leave you And to this day I can still smell
The lingering odor of smoke
On my clothes.