Life won't tell me what tears a family apart.
The pieces just lie there on the floor.
They're bleeding out, staining the carpet with harsh words.
I'm taunted by the jigsaw puzzle I could never solve.
Foreign lips behind me tell me it's not my fault.
I don't even recognize the soft, silk-like voice of my mother anymore.
She is the screaming stranger who has a warrant to search for reasons to leave.
Her eyes have become heavy, droopy, sleepy.
Rest won't come to her at night, and she is a slave to her memories at day.
Far away, in the dark hall, my father notices the glistening water well in my eyes.
I can see the flooding river in his dark brown eclipses.
The water is gaining on the bridge.
I reach out with the scaly hands that were once dripping with love and happiness.
The desert skin is finally tasting rain from my tears.
It's pouring hard.
It's been pouring hard for 14 years and 7 months.
The jail cell strangling me is rusting at the sides.
With chains around my hands and feet, I have become Life's doomed prisoner.