Don't ask me how I am.
Ask me how it felt when you tore the heart from my chest.

Ask me how it felt when the May 2012 tornado ripped through my town and ripped the life from my little brother's body.
Ask me how it felt when the splintered floorboards of our double wide were protruding through his skin like knives through the core of our family.
Ask me how it felt when he was clinging on for his youthful life.
His last breath.
Ask me how it felt when we found him three days later dead.

Ask me how it felt when you asked me how I am.
Ask me about how you gave me false hope.
Ask me how it felt when I believed In you, but you proved me wrong.
Ask me how it felt when you left.
Ask me how it felt to be me in that moment.

Ask me how it felt when you sucked the happiness from my soul, the same way you used to suck the dirt from our dirty floors with that stupid vacuum.

Don't ask me how I am.

Ask me who I am.
Ask me why I am
Ask me what you've done to me.

Ask me what it feels like to feel like the black hole of my family.
Absorbing in all of our heartache.
Taking all our family's grief and pushing it out the other side.
Only for the opression to be pulled right back in.

Ask me what it feels like to have such a strong event horizon.
Ask me what it feels like to be the one who's put together in my family.

Ask me.
Just ask me.
Please.

Ask me how it felt to watch dad suffer.
Ask me, mom.