Bad Mother, the day after Christmas

I've been picking up crap all day in the house, the day after Christmas the plastic and the wrappings and the empty plastic containers the foam bullets and the torpedos a helicopter blade an errant lego crumbs of a house and a candy red-nosed reindeer. I've screamed a few times, how I hate it when I scream, when I yell how I don't want to be that kind of mother but I am and as I jumped on top of the blue bin of papers trying to tamp it down, tamp it down and let it go all the way to the bottom to make more my littlest one the one who asked for more when he got so much he cried that he hated his life hated it all it was too much stuff, he said and his face looked puffy and his eyes were red as they dripped and I felt sorry, his brother coughing in the bed with a peanut butter sandwich that I'd screamed I'm not making more food at ten o'clock at night when you eat junk all day and I know the reason why your mouth hurts why you might be getting sick is because you've been eating junk, junk, for days. Who is this screaming? When he asked me to play, his lanky body strumming the fake guitar to love me do like a man he looked like a beautiful man and I sat on the couch for a second to watch and when he asked me to play I said no. Bad mother.