(My very own) Personal Hell

Morning began as any other,
straightening up my small room,
followed by
a marlboro red 100, skillet hash,
coffee.


Cherries and Berries
in my window
while simultaneously a youth and future squandered
pool at my feet
to the tune of cacophonous
wailing sirens.
"Sean Pokorney? Sean Pokorney? Sean..."
They
always told me I was built to race the clock
—trouble
is,
The clock got something of a head start.


I awake the next morn.
a small room smaller
in spite of its newfound emptiness; life, being
rendered vacuous, hollow in like fashion.
Broken- clothed in nothing but a cloud of shame and
bruises from last night's battery,
"You tore this family apart"
—my stepmother's accent cuts through the tension like a searing knife:
I appear to look at her, but my eyes hold nothing.
I say nothing-
as any shitbag might.