by John
My family is an expired firecracker set off by the blowtorch of divorce
We lay scattered in many directions.
My father is the wick, badly burnt but still glowing softly.
My mother is the blackened paper fluttering down, blowing this way and that, unsure where to land.
My sister is the fallen, colorful parachute, lying in a tangled knot, unable to see the beauty she holds.
My brother is the fresh, untouched powder that was protected from the flame.
And I, I am the singed, outside papers, curled away from everything, silently cursing the blowtorch
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