Look out of your window. Blink. A polaroid of my sister.

Bruised pink. Sea aster. The sun through a hole in my sweater

sleeve. A sour taste on my tongue. A dead fly between the pages.

It's always sour, like the milk in our fridge that's expired

a month ago. But we don't care. Mum pours enough water

in it and has us drink it. But Phoebe still cries. A lot.

A pale summer. Leftover regrets for dinner. Mouths stained

in tobacco and wrong choices. You were a teenage mistake.

Look at the clock. It's half past 2. Beggers cry, babies cry, 

my mother cries in her pillow. I wish I could wipe her tears

and kiss her goodnight. Sometimes Phoebe asks me to sing

her a lullaby when she gets those nightmares. 

She's only seven.

I'm afraid if those demons will ever leave her side.

Sweet sixteen. A bad first date. Slamming doors, 

weeping skies. There are more holes in my sweater sleeve.

These are bigger now, and the rich kids wear them too.

They call it "ripped." More like clothes made by an

angry toddler with a pair of scissors. It's half past 7. 

We don't get called for dinner anymore. 

It's either mac-n-cheese or frozen pizza or nothing. 

I bite the fork too hard. Or maybe the fork 

bites me. Either way, it aches when I laugh.

We don't talk about it. The missing plates. 

The empty cupboard. Bare walls with vertical cracks.

Phoebe jokes that we're the starving artists

of suburbia. The sky is gray enough to taste.

Rain smells like pennies and pavement. Wet socks

weigh me down. My lighter clicks, sparks, dies again.

TV static whispers in the living room. My stomach 

rumbles, but the freezer's too far. Rain beats the 

window—a knock, a plea, but we don't answer.

Outside, a streetlamp flickers. 

We pretend it's not an omen.