Annie

It happened like her mother

Said it would, before

She could even stop to take

A breath.

Three under three, in fact,

Three all two–triplets

Convening in the kitchen

To kill her.

Brad would say she’s being absurd.

“The kids don’t want to kill you, Annie,”

He’d muse, plucking a beer from the back

Of the fridge and going to see who

He could blow to smithereens

On Fortnite.

Brad found life so easy

That Annie hated the way

She hated him.

It wasn’t fair to him–

A man-boy coddled

By one woman, only

To grow up and find

Another woman willing

To do the same.

He was only being who everyone

Groomed him to be.

It’s not worth the fight,

Annie would often think, whether

rubbing a Mr. Clean Eraser raw

Against the crayon

on her grayish-beige walls

Or picking at matted Cheerios

from her carpet.

At night, or more like early morning,

With Brad snoozing and the triplets

Comatose after a day of expelling

Every ounce of their energy,

Annie would watch her ceiling,

A blank, white background,

Pretending to blast one wrong

Choice after another

With a futuristic rifle

Until the only thing left–

The reality of another new

Day.