Saluting stiff-armed,
her twelve-year-old son calls her a Nazi,
his words like acid in her face.
Her daughter, seventeen
and bent on going to hell,
keeps still behind her closed door,
making pretty incisions
and humming softly.
Marie sighs and quietly shuts
her own bedroom door.
Curled on the bed,
she reads the crumpled collection
of meaningless words once more--
her husband's terse goodbye.
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I can feel your pain through your words.
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