They come from dusty little farmlands where
houses were sunken into earth
or toppled over and scattered.
Scattered, like pieces of trash tiptoeing in the wind and
the sun.
The sun was unrelenting
Its rays kissing their cheeks but biting mine.
Because the grew up on
sun-dappled fields while
all I mostly knew were chilly morning sidewalks.
So I came to love the cold like a friend that often visits and sleeps over.
Our doors were often open, accepting visitors from the dark
like flies,
mosquitos,
and smoke.
Smoke freely drifting in and out with the wind and intermingling with the scent of
alcohol.
It reeked.
Despite how welcomed the cold was I never learned to love how the air violently shakes.
It shakes from the yelling. The crashing plates. All equally as violent as the air.
I learned to hate it.
I absolutely hated it.
The
        yelling,
                      fighting,
                                      crying,
                                                   screaming;
I have never learned to love the violence
despite knowing it the longest, it was an unwelcomed guest,
its parasitic familiarity I learned to spite because with it it brings a disease of
chopped-up doors and
                                         blood-smeared steps and
                                                                                      punched-in walls.
Its visits leaving a permanent scar
before finally leaving for good.