We sit at the table,
My dearest family and I.
We sit and chat,
Talk of things,
Of boring things
That no one really gives
A damn about.

We look at each other
And endure long moments
In which we say
Nothing.
They look at me
I look at them.
There we sit
And sit
And sit.

Sometimes I catch them
In the act
Of sending me a
Murderous glare
Behind my back.
How dare I ruin
Their perfect lives?
How dare my body
Demand special treatment?
How dare I
Be
Sick?

And that’s exactly it.
I’m sorry.
I really am,
For all the inconveniences,
For the bills,
For the lives
Accosted.
For the food
And the joy
And the care...
Truly.

I send my condolences
For the time wasted
On this deteriorating body
Of mine,
For this sharp mind
That perceives
The disdain.
For the embarrassment
Of having a sister
Or daughter
Whose insides don’t work
Quite right.

And, most of all,
I’m sorry that
You can’t say
A damn thing
To my face.
But,
That’s okay,
Because the words
Not spoken
Say more
Than any
Verbal accusation
Ever
Could.