sick game

it’s a sick game
when the narcissist brother
decides to spin the wheel of filth
and it lands on you.

he pulls the strings,
tosses out tales —
wild stories of sex and drugs,
dirt that never touched your skin
but now stains your name.
the family swallows it whole,
gagging on the lies
but coming back for more,
as if that rotten taste
is better than the bitter truth.

and you watch them,
the aunts, uncles,
those other brothers and sisters,
leaning in close,
eyes gleaming like addicts
itching for their next hit
of scandal and shame.

what kind of people
dig through the dirt of your life,
real or imagined,
and find joy in the rot?
what kind of family
sits around a table
and feasts on your supposed sins,
laughs over the wreckage
of your name?

they’re broken,
twisted like old wires
that can’t spark anymore
so they need the heat
of your imagined downfall
to feel anything at all.

but you,
you’re still standing,
even as they paint you in shadows.
they can’t touch your truth,
can’t poison what you know inside.
their games are sick,
but you refuse to play,
and that’s your victory
in a world of their losses.