There is always a storm

at my dad's house.

He and my stepmother

fight constantly, 

their voices roaring and blazing

like thunder and lightning,

shouting about whether or not

to have a salad at dinner,

why she put eggshells in the trash

instead of down the garbage disposal

when everyone knows that's 

where they go,

who isn't listening,

who isn't getting the point.

In the background,

my three-year-old half brother

howls like the sullen wind,

throwing a tantrum because

he doesn't want to go to bed, 

he wants candy before dinner,

he wants to play on his iPad for just

one more minute.

Meanwhile, I sit on the loveseat,

staring at a book,

hands pressed over my ears,

trying and failing 

to drown it all out.