wiping the cabinets with a chewed sponge, the mother screamed at the cramped wooden spoons and dusted flour canisters how tired she was, how many nights she spent consuming passion puckered novels that only sucked her dry. she spat between nicotine eroded sandcastles that she did it all. the children and the father sat in the living room deaf and unaffected. they could only focus on the smell of burnt hair escaping the vacuum's dying lungs.
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