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Home-Wrecker

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  • Home-Wrecker

    Home-Wrecker
    by Michael L. Smith, JR
    Las Vegas, NV

    She cries at night, when no one is there to watch
    To hear her anguished sobs as she wrings her hands
    To feel her despair in the air, a physical thing in its enormity
    A heart-wrenching lullaby as she drifts off into slumber
    A restless sleep filled with dreams, nightmares
    Full of the source of all her pain and sadness
    That home-wrecker, tearing her family apart
    Ripping their bonds to pieces, thread by thread
    Argument by argument, tear by tear
    There are a lot of tears these days
    For her, anyway, always for her alone
    Left to handle these feelings of depression
    All alone, long abandoned by her child and husband
    That home-wrecker, tearing her family apart
    She fingers her ring when no one is looking
    The dull gold reflecting her life almost comically
    Having once looked so nice, only to fade with age
    She eventually exits her hysterics, fearful
    Ever mindful not to wake her now-grown child
    Stumbling to the kitchen, tears still streaming down her face
    A bottle, forgotten, sits upon the table
    A slight sheen of sweat dripping down it slowly
    In a moment of fury, she grips the neck
    And throws it against the wall, shattering the fragile glass
    Like so many pieces of her life, never to be picked up
    The label slides down slowly, “Bud Light”
    That home-wrecker, tearing her family apart
    Ripping their bonds to pieces, drink by drink
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