His hands seemed almost bizarre on the fork.
How can something so large handle something so small?
Did my mother's hand fit into his at all?
I wondered as he chewed up the dead pork.

"It does not taste right." He says as he takes another bite.
The blood is foaming from his open mouth.
"It is half-cooked and still fresh; the animal still tries.
to outrun his flesh. It is hard to bite and dry."

He tries to say as he swallows, even as it rots
He keeps just eating more. Then he slams the fork.
chants curses that would put a priest inside the morgue
I listen to him call God as I ponder about loving

In the black and white pictures, it existed.
where my mother's eyes still smiled
where her movements were not rehearsed
where she didn't have to keep the glass half full so it wouldn't burst

I see her in my reflection: a sad-eyed girl.
with a table filled with savory and sweet
But Mother, do we share this quiet rage when we eat?
You wish you could replace his head on the plate?

Mother, are you a good actress?
Do you keep knives under your dress?
Does your mind create images?
Where you pay off all the witnesses.

"Will you ever feed me something other than your tears?"
He shouts as he slams his fists.
and his hands make sounds
as loud as war bombs

We learned when to be quiet.
when to soak up all the silence
But, Mother, in your mind, is he still the head of the table?
Or just a head on the plate?

I never understood my mother.
She used to rest with a book in her hands.
She read novels about tragedies and stolen lands.
Skin-to-skin with my father

Why does she read books about fights and wars?
At her feet lived a real-life Hoplite man.
Already thinking about his phalanx plan.
How to conquer or claim forbidden lands

He never understood my mother.
Why bother with peaceful streams?
When in battle, steel swords gleam.
Crimson blood and gunshot dreams

Me on my couch with my Greek tragedies
At my heels rests my warrior, Achilles.
In his mind, he builds monasteries.
While I read about the conquered seas

I feel like my mother understood the thunder.
Whenever he had a moment with my father,
Maybe he had a glimpse of peace.
While he looked up at my mother's face

She is a sculptor, carefully molding
And just as precisely, she is folding.
Digs through the earth in search of sapphire eyes
Rips the wheat for hair, just like she desires.
When it finally speaks, the voice is weak.
"Breathe life in me; feelings are what I seek."
Oh, how perfect her strangest creation!
Broken fragments of imagination.

"You’re my blank page, I can fill with stories."
"The low whisper to hush all my worries"
First, she teaches it to dance, then how to
Sing, shows the color of the sky is blue.
Secondly, she shows the earth and the dead.
Rotting in the ground below, blood is red.
Also, color of love: never worry.
Learn to appreciate all the beauty.

On the third day, it longs to be free now.
Searching the dark, it was shown for a way out.
It screams, "I don’t belong to anyone."
"I am free as birds that fly toward dawn."
"I made you, showed you the world; stay faithful.
There’s no breaking free; don’t be ungrateful."
Now it sneaks out at night through the back door.
Freedom and chains are falling to the floor.

She is like flowing rivers, tracing maps.
can even travel seven continents
sculpts her own path with wood and bleeding hands
knows that there are harmless and harmful plants
She wants to stick her hand in them to feel.
thinks it would be nice after it to heal
Still now the blood drops, the footsteps grow strong.
She is forced back into her hole by bond.

For a sculptor loves its creation dearly.
just wants to tweak and work on it daily
Shall the potter be regarded as the clay too?
In her road for discovery, did she grow?
Can she let go of what she created?
Or clip its wings and lock all the cages?
My dear sculptor, let it go; let her roam.
She might just be the future's next grindstone.

As God, doubtful of her own creation
What if what her hand makes can conquer nations?
Does it not deserve to sculpt just as she?
To shake like earthquakes, scream like a banshee.
Let her go, let her go, it echoes now.
She stands back, no longer a sculptor but a guide.
The chisel drops from her shaking hand.
as the marble moves and bows her head.

I live inside walls of breeze blocks,
Concrete and cinder halls.
My enemies live on the other side.
We meet sometimes—
to negotiate cease-fires
between cigarette breaks.

Still, while he offers peace,
he sets up artillery.
I ready my firearm.
She rings the bomb alarm.
The Luftwaffe ricochets—
while he prays...

He is more religion than a man.
She, more hurricane than a woman.
And I—something like a child.
Only the old and the unkind
keep count: forty-three, forty-four—
we are still at war.

After the cigarette burned out
The house burned down.
They say, "Child, take this to the grave."
If you made it out alive from the battle of Crete
Parents, I survived the friendly fire.
While you bombarded, I built the Roman Empire.

I've never felt second best,
Being a twin, you get asked a lot of questions:
"Who's older?"
"Who's smarter?"
"Who's the favorite?"
But you never gave into them:
"They were born at the same time"
"They both have straight A's"
"I love them both so much"
What's changed?

I've learned that I'm younger,
Only by a second—a moment,
My birth certificate bears a different time,
Yet we still tell people we're the same age
Because the difference doesn't define us.

Now I'm starting to fail my classes,
Not a single A to my name anymore.
You must think of her as the smarter one,
While I'm the one who can't be bothered:
No homework, no studying, no perfect SAT score.
Have things changed because you've finally chosen a favorite?
And of course, it's her.

I've grown to hate myself,
So it's not surprising you do too.
You see yourself in me and loathe it,
Support no longer feels like support
Because you can't imagine I'd be anything like you:
Of course I'm not sad,
Or anxious enough to pass out,
Of course I'm faking when I'm throwing up
So you'll send me to school.

But when she wants to stay home,
You shower her with love,
Buy her favorite foods,
While you'd take mine away to keep me thin.

When I want to disappear,
I'm still second best.
You'll cry, but still yell,
Making me feel guilty for wanting you to care.

I'll keep my head down—float with the majority,
And try to live with being second priority.
But know that I am more than your reflection;
More than a twin, more than second best.
I am my own person, worthy of love,
Even if you can't see it yet.

Nothing is not pain, and somehow not as simple as
being no more than nothing would explain.

Vaguely showing signs of love
Tamely cooking up
meals of modesty
bravely ******* up
priorities, honestly
I though for a time
those emotional commodities were none existent
Reminiscent of nothing.
I didn't know of loving
and my weekly rations of half arsed hugging
didn't feed an appetite for much more than
pokemon cards and chicken nuggets.

What child would grow in a void of the unknown
to love the people who left them
alone and longing
whilst furnishings and trinkets they bring in
as if to say that
a child is no more worth a thought than
the millionth handbag or lamp shade brought.
And to that child these things are nothing.
Nothing in love and nothing in family
and yet more worthy of attention and affection than them,
but that's fine.
Such consistent rejection had some effects on me
and I found my joy in toys and confectioneries.

To know the familiar face of nothing
and paint on that blank canvass a picture of something
easier to define for the lack of light
and in some morbid way, that may be my blessing;
A comprehensive and profound understanding of the things I'm missing.

Drive me to a cheap motel.
Pay for a week, the one after as well.
But what do I do when I can’t save up money?
“We’ll worry about it if it happens, honey.”
Daddy, I’m scared, and Mommy I’m tired.
If you push too hard, I might just expire.
I’m losing time, and I’m losing hope.
So I just tend to dissociate to cope.
I made three new alters in just the last week,
But you don’t listen, don’t know what that means.
I do want to survive, live, be alive,
But I’ll need more help if you want me to survive.
Please love me now, like I needed love then.
If not as a parent, at least as a friend?
Mom, I know you hate me. No, no, it’s true,
But the only person you hate more is you.
And Dad, I don’t lie when I love you I say,
But stand for yourself, not your wife, just one day.
You both have raised me, shaped me, molded me,
But the person you think I am isn’t the person I wanna be.
I’m your son, though I know it’s hard to adjust.
I find it hard to love and harder to trust.
The people who raised me, taught me, bathed me.
When I ask for acceptance, don’t make me say please.
In the end, we all need therapy, I think,
But don’t dismiss the truth I will speak.

There is this feeling I’ve never felt.
Given one less card when cards were dealt.
A constant gambling poker game,
Not for money, nor for fame.
This **** was rigged at the start.
The lost feeling was love, joy in my heart.
It’s taught by some mothers but never mine.
I pity the souls who were raised in kind.
I love others; don’t be mistaken.
But it feels like love for myself was taken,
Away by my mother, or maybe God.
Either way, I think it’s rather odd.
The way I was treated. The way I was raised.
The way that, despite that, my mother was praised.
My dad, he’s alright, but I think he should
Stand up for himself, for his own good.
It’s not my fault, but I’m given credit,
For my parents’ emotional deficit.
Regardless of where my poker game started.
I hope I can win, when I’m departed.

I think I’m an *******. What’s my excuse?
Well, it came from my parents’ emotional abuse.
Their parents before them. And theirs before them.
So, there! That’s my reason for not being a gem.
But reasons and excuses have nothing to say
To protect you from criticism at the end of the day.

Righting our parents’ wrongs is very hard,
And fixing broken minds can be even harder.
Maybe we should try harder to fix our behavior.
Cause our behavior can harm more than it helps.
Our impact is always affected by our intent,
And we must always try to be kind.