My mom spent a lot of her time praying
It took me some time to realize it was her way of coping
My little brother cried when things didn’t go his way
My sister consumed calories (she’ll never admit that though)
These things brought them comfort
Prayer kept my mom hopeful
Crying made my little brother think he had a chance
at getting what he wanted
He knew everyone hated the noise he made
I, on the other hand had nothing
At least nothing consistent
I wrote sometimes, cried at three am, ate sometimes
But mostly I sat back and watched the chaos unfold
People never really understood what I meant
When I said I was getting too comfortable?
It did not mean my life was going too well
It meant I was accepting the tragedy too nonchalantly
As if I somehow thought I was living somebody else’s life
And I was waiting for them to fix the mess.
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