“What it’s like coming from a broken home?”
I didn’t have an answer to the question
What do you do when you’re the only one who knows it’s broken?
Broken to me is the cracks in the glass made by whispers in the dark
It’s the late night meetings concealed by countless lies
The utter disrespect of monogamy, loyalty and morals
It’s the parade of sadness that you brought into our lives with your complete selfishness
When it’s hidden so deep within me it’s the quiet suffering
The tears that stain my pillow
It’s the large amounts of alcohol consumed to dull the disgust and allows me to forget for a moment
Like a monster attached to my back knawing at my flesh keeping a dirty secret hoping to never see the light
So I don’t know what it’s like coming from a broken home
outside I smile
And I bare the burden for the rest
Because the alternate means coming from a broke home that that everyone else can see.