When I was a child, and the rift of my parents was a
black gulping void bridged only by the objects they hurled
I crept from the trenches of my room, carrying a
boombox sparkled with rainbow unicorn stickers,
glittering hearts, and set it down between them.
I’d hunted the song for weeks.  Across radio frequencies,
top 10 lists, the voices of DJs, until i caught it
in a net of shiny brown film, locked on all sides by plastic.
I played it for my parents and sang the words I could not speak,
a hopeful spell woven into carefully memorized lyrics
that implored my father to stay, begged my mother cease her angry fire
Their dark eyes, dull as missile shells, cut into my tender heart,
as they swallowed my spell in silence.



Based in the bright lights and seedy shadows of New York City, Ro Molina works as a freelance writer, blogger and general creative mercenary.  Some of her work can be seen on Moxy Mag and She’s Self-Employed.

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