We hurt each other over and over—no one is safe yet the word family keeps us sharing meals together.
We are soaked to the bone with brutality and bitterness—drenched pieces of paper—our stories blur—unable to live our own narratives—our ink muddled by sea air—we are tears and tight lips from family secrets with no resolution.
Disembodied dynamics—we are all loose-leaf paper—no binder to hold us together—scattering with the winds as a cold front roars in off the Gulf of Mexico.
We are boats banging into each other or chipping each other’s paint—the barnacles of bruises crossed over—we are sharp to the touch—don’t hug each other or you will get cut.
