So theres my Father. He twists open bottle caps to yellow see through vials. And just takes a few more than prescribed. He likes it more than his own blood that’s screaming out for his love.

Then there’s my Mom. She has been on her own since day one. She worked. She cried. She shined. She tried. That’s all she could do. And shes the best at what she does, like the time she takes to caress my damp forehead when my fever rises.

And my Grandma. Younger than most, tries to make up for the past with a pint of ice cream. The outside sweating because of the heat. As M*A*S*H plays in the backround, we just lay in bed with a thin linen sheet covering me. And her hands wiping away the tears drenching her face, that she thought I couldn’t see.

My Aunt Cindy isn’t the best. She allows evil to seep into the cracks and crevices of her home. That evil has hurt everyone around her especially me and sarah. And will leave a scar forever. I remember wrapping sarah in one arm and the other grasping her stuffed polar bear that had a santa hat sewn on its head. “It’s going to be ok.” I whisper. He is abuse. He is sick. He is evil. Let in by family. But I forgive because we are family.

I was 13. Sarahjo was 9.

I am their family. And Family means blood. And my blood is poisoned. doomed for failure. Sitting on the floor of the bathroom, ear buds flowing music in my ears. Imagining a fate that doesn’t end with abuse, tears, and poison. One day of a fairytale happy ending. But in the end there is only music and the cold damp tile floor, and my hands wiping away the tears that drench my face. The tears no one ever sees.