Older Children That Yell At Their Parents

the walls hum with voices of a war no one sees. the dinner plates rattle as if asking to be smashed, and the dog hides under the table, eyes wide, waiting for the next explosion. they are lightning without rain, fireworks that never fade. they yell because the silence has eaten them alive, a hunger that no bread can cure. medications sit on the counter like unspoken prayers, but the children won't touch them. they won't believe in saints, in gods, in doctors. they are raw, howling, a choir of torn hearts singing themselves to pieces. the parents turn to stone, old wounds stitched to their faces, waiting for the storm to blow itself away.