My village burned.
I watched it curl to smoke.
My sister got high on ****,
her body fading into a ghost.

Mom moved north,
married her banker man.
I see them once a year,
and that’s fine, I guess.

My brother says I’m just too much:
too loud, too heavy,
too proud and tear-stained.
Every word a siphon on my veins.

Dad—emotionally phobic,
pretends my name is silence.
Using the tears of my grief,
He washed his hands of me.