A blurb of prose for this time in our country

and for my step kid in case they ever read this blog

and wonder what life was like for them at age 10:

​

The air crackles between us,

vitriol wafting a perfume

of un-knowing and spite

choking the breath from lungs,

you're trying your best to win

the game of love,

the competition

that doesn’t exist here.

​

An invitation

to drown

in failure,

a steep drop to an invisible

waterline

where

lies

slip

in and out

of morning light.

​

You are vanishing,

​

but in our home,

we feel your death,

a silent bird

unmoving by the food dish,

sharp beaked and covered in blood

from your own destructive flight.

​

Shrieking imaginations

no longer rest,

flames consume every intention,

tears drench our pillows

as you sit in her kitchen,

drinking her venom

in a mug

with hearts and ABCs,

holding a fist of cash

and grinning.