"Blood is thicker than water," they say.
Sure.
And poison is thicker than wine, too— but I wouldn’t pour it into my glass and call it a toast to family.
Whoever coined that phrase clearly never sat at a dinner table where silence was louder than screaming, where the smiles were sharp enough
to carve flesh from bone, and love wore the mask of obligation.
They say family sticks by you.
Mine sticks like thorns, mostly in my back.
Funny thing about blood— it clots.
It dries.
It vanishes the moment you’re no longer useful.
When you’re shining, when your life sparkles like fresh money, they come crawling out from their corners like moths to a chandelier.
Sugar in your voice, syrup on your name, arms wide open— but palms always facing up.
They’ll swear you’re “one of us.”
Until you’re not.
Until you trip, crack,bleed out.
And suddenly?
They vanish.
Not a phone call, not a knock, not a whisper.
Family, huh?
I used to think I was the broken one.
Too suspicious.
Too cold.
Too… “complicated.”
But I’ve learned.
Oh, I’ve learned.
People show you who they are when you’re empty— when you have nothing left to give but your truth.
And most of them?
They want no part of that.
Because truth isn’t pretty.
It’s not gift-wrapped in gold.
It’s raw.
It’s hungry.
And it doesn’t flatter egos.
Still, here’s the twist— I’m not bitter.
Not anymore.
I’m better.
Because now I know that water can drown, but it can also cleanse.
And some strangers will hold your head above it longer than your blood ever tried to.
Now I build my family in the quiet spaces— with people who show up,
not because they have to,but because they choose to.
Not bound by blood, but tethered by truth.
And that, ironically,is thicker than anything I’ve ever bled for.
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