Thomas closed the bedroom door
As if he had gone inside then sat
Down on the floor at the top of the stairs.
His Parents unaware;
The shouting, the accusations,
The family affairs.
Rows and raised voices
That echo versions of the truth.
His mother had grown cold
Like the dinner that they didn’t eat.
It’s the third time this week.
He buries his head into his knees,
Blue striped pyjamas now dirty with tears,
Little hands raised over ears.
His mouth moves with silent speech
As if he was praying to something within reach.
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