An Italian Family's Kitchen

The rain smelled like paprika and smoke,
an Italian family’s kitchen,
the day that I told my father I was scared. 
That was the same day, he took me to the asylum
where they pumped me up like a balloon
high on helium
oh wait, I mean lithium.
But.
You probably don’t know what chemicals can do
to a person that doesn’t need them. 
It drowns. 
Drowns like a girl beneath the surface of the water,
pounding on it from underneath,
like the painting banging against the glass frame 
to get out,
blood bleeding from her wrists like watercolors. 
The rain smelled like yeast and old photographs,
an Italian family’s dining room,
the second day that I told my father I was scared. 
That was the same day that he took me home
where they pumped me up like a balloon
high on apologies and cries,
oh wait, I mean lies. 
But.
You probably don’t know what brokenness can do 
to a person that’s already broken.
It drowns. 

-anna sluder

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