children run through fields, picking dandelions as they go. like these flowers, some kids never get to grow. some however, do. quickly and all at once. they grow in a place where shouting fills house corridors and broken glass fills kitchen floors. it's not supposed to be like this. where is the domestic bliss. why have kisses on cheeks been replaced with not seeing your dad for weeks? tight anaconda grips on small fragile wrists, it's better not to resist. it's better not to speak, better not to tell. kids that were once made of glitter and kids once made of puppy dog tails are now composed of fear and bitten down nails. it's not supposed to be like this. where is the domestic bliss.
