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Poetry

The Family Room

There’s a sort of brokenness in the air—
suffering and bad decisions
locked into a room
too small
to handle anything more
than

two people.

I used to love this room—
cocktails of my favorite rum
and sins
of mysterious darkness,
only my brother and his wife could bring.

The smell of weed and excitement.

My feet itch as I
dance through
glitter-coated floors,
slide round and round

until she cracks—

Glitter shines a mean bright against
oozing yellow that comes out
of her tongue and her
tear-stained cheeks.

She needs help.

Pills and pipes
cigarette butts— her oozing dreams
mixed with enough matches
to build a fire
that lights up in my brother’s

foreign eyes.

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