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Poetry

March

7 June 2017

mother comes home from the supermarket
smelling of strangers’ cigarette smoke.
that’ll be her activity of the day;
then she sits at home and yells at us

father is drunk on his own ego;
he likes to throw things:
the metronome, against the wall.
like a god, for he has frozen time

there’s little room for our antics
and no room for little girls.
I am not a child, and they are not adults
for they throw tantrums like a toddler.

we are a family of paper dolls
held together by the thin excuse of blood
I tip-toe around their bedroom doors
but they march through mine like an afterthought

we grow up; we grow up
I become an adult okay with too many things,
silent with neurodivergency and queer identity,
body stained with unfulfilled revolutions

we grow up; we grow up
you have fled to the other side of this earth
and I remain lost at home
waiting for my time to come.


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