we’re merely strangers disguised as a family. four cornerstones propping up the dinner table -- a doll house when seen through a telescope, though the peachy porcelain pillars are tarnished by the cracks at their corners. “perfect family” shines in neon lettering on the threshold. it looms over us, frantically peppering the conversation long gone stale. it stings my eyes, and burns my tongue to speak. my teeth are plastic, my fingers plasticine, pieced together carelessly a millennia ago, when warmth still existed in the spaces between us. now, we are cloaked in our own despondencies, eyes staring not at each other, but through. we float past each other as ghosts; though I’m the only one who hears the echoes.