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My mother is yelling

about how she hates her life.

I can practically see her exasperated expression

as she slams pots and pans.

The television blares in an attempt

to combat her shrieks

and the crash of clanging metal.

She frantically scribbles a to-do list for me, and leaves.

 

My father is muttering

about his sad, lazy daughters.

Empty cups and used napkins litter his side-table

while he sits reclined in his chair

ignoring the undone laundry that lays in

heaps on the livingroom floor.

He steps over his trash and goes outside to the garage.

 

My sister is crying

about her abusive boyfriend.

She wonders why she is never enough,

and why no one seems to want her around.

She yells at me to go away and shuts her bedroom door,

further separating herself from the world.

 

I am reading

to escape the confines of my house.

Going on adventures for hours until I am forced

back into an unfavorable reality.

Why is it that I have to clean up everyone else’s messes?