I look at the inkblot.

pretending it looks like

a flower,

a delicate rose

with wrinkled petals

but it doesn’t.

looks more like a dead rat,

maggots writhing over flesh,

burrowing away from the light.

But in the end,

it is simply a picture

of empty meaningless blackness.

Mother loves a man she has every reason to hate.

bruised arms wrap around bruised skin

“We could leave.”

another breath forgives him

like oxygen becoming iron

“I will never make your mistake.”

Our home is full of blood, but

when the windows finally scab over,

the vermin will drown.

The accumulated filth

will foam up.

Father and Mother

will look up and shout

“Save Us!”

I’ll look down, and whisper,

“No”