Welcome to my home: Where it smells of weed and cigarettes. Where the loud music and the parents fighting doesn't trump the sadness and the animosity among the two children. Where the parents hurting each other or never speaking isn't as bad as what the youngest in the house has thought. Where the oldest is trying to keep ahold of everything and trying to keep order but is completely falling apart because she can't stand the disorder or the amount of weight she has trying to keep her brother from not doing the unmentionable.
YOU ARE READING
Means strong in basque. Just writings about my home life. Some are poems some are not. This is my outlet because I am not able to talk about my home life so I write about it. I will not be another silent victim.