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?