A first today.
I cried at work.
Been plenty angry
while working jobs.
Never bawled.
One positive—
I work at home.

My daughter is five,
traumatized—melts down
in daily transitions—
screams, throws chairs.
Classrooms evacuated
while in blind red rage.
This is her normal,
accustomed to the colours
of her brother’s lingering,
pre-adoptive trauma.

Her teachers tell me
she’s scared at home.
All the time.
Afraid to be alone.
Loud outbursts—
blue language,
voices escalating,
rising to the bait.
A neglected infant becomes
a teenage boy with stunted
frontal lobe feelings.

His stealing is new.
More lies from a truthful face.
No memory of activity
outside the moment.
The violence is old—
week-long suspensions.
Add home schooling
to daily workload.

I tap the phone,
make familiar appointments
for a different name.
Emotional education—
support from professionals.
Past outcomes dubious.
It takes two to Tango,
effort to change,
not just extinction bursts.
I should know—
my trauma a result
of another’s lack of empathy.