Daddy’s always angry for the wrong reasons, and mommy is getting tired of bending over that counter, mixing tears with the dish

Daddy’s always angry for the wrong reasons, and mommy is getting tired of bending over that counter, mixing tears with the dishwater. By now suppertime is a burial ground, who’s the next one to go? Like the carcass on the plates we can all relate. And when everyone took a moment to breathe, I realized I wasn’t breathing at all and really couldn’t remember the last time I tried. He’s in that new house, missing out on all this action, and maybe for the better because they’ve cried over him and I’m dreadfully tired of saltwater. Interruptions are few but greatly welcomed, and I love that little dog and his vocal chords

So please speak up. I am not one to point fingers, much like her and how strange that her mother is completely opposite, but I was just wondering when I became part of the wallpaper and why do you keep painting over me? Daddy makes enough money to give us a cushy life, filled with Egyptian cotton and gold but he’s losing his words and replacing them with dollar bills. How could I tell him that I sleep on that bed because its old and uncomfortable and it took no fake forgiveness for me to get to sleep at night. How does she feel on that cold side? Not even shoulders touching, but they wanted it that way. And he sleeps on the floor, the incredible savior that I hold onto for all might, an angel trapped in a dogs body, sometimes we all smile over him and that’s when I remember what I’m supposed to feel like. I shipped myself off before I ever left the house, did they notice I was an empty shell? Certainly by now we’ve completely forgotten about that boy in the other house and how his life is going. But I am quick to mend hearts and hold hands so together we go, I ended up choking down my pride and when he came back unsuccessful with double the scars, this was my time. I am so grateful to all who allowed me to fix them, honestly it’s comforting to know that I have nothing left to call my own. Because money can’t buy what I’ve earned and his words and their fighting just seep into me like a sponge, but I don’t think I feel the moisture anymore. I put extra padlocks on the door, not to keep you out but to keep me in. And I think back to dinner tables, where we all sat together, how we used to laugh and smile and I forgot you had all those problems and I had never seen you cry, I think back to those times when the boy who lived in the other house was still part of the place setting and we loved him like he was our own. When it was quiet then, when we were silent, I still can’t remember myself breathing.