the question is, can you be broken (again)?
what horseshit. tired and livid. the sand beneath the foundation, jack hammer through what you though was forever and only and inch between you and the flood. all floods. how about that jack. it came all apart and you were at your father’s throat under the impression that he wasn’t doing enough and that ever sore tender spot that he never really understood you or appreciated you or saw your gift. irony: a mother who thought you were capable of anything but wouldn’t let you ever really try and find out and a father who simply couldn’t quite accept that everything that mattered to you, mattered at all.
and perhaps it was that seething-ness that ruptured everything else when the power was out and the basement was flooded and the garbage piled up on your curb like useless sandbags after the damage had already been done.

stutter, stutter, full step, full trip, an eyeball twisting about, where’s the comma in that?
and parallels: a dog chewing the scruff of its neck, a vague release, an itch about to be scratched but somehow lost in the translation.
great walls and pit falls, a wisp of hair caught between lips and a cough that interrupts deep sleep. I’ve always been lost at this point, where the exits become further apart and names have become numbers.
she says beds are for sleeping and not much else, a sour note that hints at aggravation and disappointment and I twist and turn and squirm and I am four again where all I heard was the sound of her weeping and him falling asleep soundly exhausted and satisfied and vile.
this is so inappropriate. she would say that. this isn’t fit for writing.