Tranquility is a tease. Peace is for stoned dreamers. Love is a poet’s satyr. Everyone in my family has bruises…except Papa. My sister has the most bruises; she used to have a big mouth, now she’s speechless. Those brown bastards bathe over her like a deceivingly secure blanket growing thicker with each uttered word.

My bruises are the biggest. I’m the oldest punching bag. With each painful blow, I feel the alcoholic rage. The pain rushes through me, and underneath the newest malicious mark reveals itself. Rarely do I bleed; for that, I am grateful. I am grateful.

Mama’s bruises are not so meaningless. With each bruise lies an agonized story. He drank too much, I was in his way. He drank too much, I came home late. He drank too much…