Unloved Poem by James McLain

the house was a cage,
not a home—
walls sweating whiskey,
floors creaking hate.

she was brittle,
like a cigarette burned too far down.
he was loud,
like an engine choking on its last mile.

they found their fists easier
than their words—
easier than love,
easier than silence.

the children wore bruises
like tattoos they never chose.
their laughter died
before it hit the air.

and justice?
it never came.