The way my mother and father used to fight was unnatural.

Yelling, the hitting, beer bottles thrown, not spending nights in my own bed because of their mistakes.

Crying with my siblings in the back seat of my mom's car. Motels rejecting to give us a room for the night.

Sleeping on the floor of my sisters boyfriends house.

Pity looks from his siblings as we loaded back into the car.

Then we would go back and the cycle would go on.

More yelling, and hitting. More beer bottles thrown, more forgotten kids.

More sobs, more broken crayons, more late nights.

They kept giving us more but we got nothing in return.

Absolutely nothing.