Poetry

Know, friend.

The sofa in your attic room

is a long slab of dough;

I sink into it every time

I visit.

 

I melt into the fibers

and hide there

until the storm

has passed over our heads –

 

the rage of alcohol

infects the whole street,

though the radiation-green trail

is a red-handed print from my house.

 

You tell me I can’t stay here

forever.

They’ll find me anyway,

better to turn myself in.

 

Part of me thinks you’re right.

Maybe my years of hiding

are over.

I’m supposed to be an adult soon, anyway.

 

Do adults really run

from their family?

You say you don’t know;

you’ve never had one.

 

I look at you, confused.

An empty room

stares back.

 

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