“Is everything okay, Mom?”

Suburban malaise. Little pawing hands doubling as a writhing casket. The ring on your finger as a premature death certificate. The home as a birdcage with a blanket thrown overtop of it. I know the world can hear my cries, but they just smack the bars so my ears ring loud enough to drown even my own voice out. It’s so dark, it’s so lonely, it’s so cold.

“I think I was just so tired, ya know?”