I walk in the door
like a ghost,
and pass by the mirror,
trying not to look,
at that stranger’s face,

but when I get a glance,
I turn
to the pale reflection,
flickering,
and I stare
blankly
into its blankly staring eyes,
and all I can say
is “well, ok.”
I guess this is what
I’ve become.

time moves,
with distant whispers,
in waves.

I try
(and fail)
to be aware
at the dinner table,
to give them
some appeasement for their care.

Then I’m asked,
with weary harshness,
“why don’t you ever say anything?”

well,
it’s a habit I’ve long practiced,
but I guess it’s still noticed
and sporadically unacceptable.

not much
stokes the coals in my fire,
but this burns a little bit,

because I already feel like bile
and I try to pretend to be better
for them
and this is just a reminder
that a stranger in your home
is as bad as a burden.

and you want to know why I don’t speak?
its because I no longer know what to say
or believe
in my mind.
I no longer entertain notions
of not feeling alone
and I’ve grown sickened
by playing my part.
is that enough?

and yet
I still often give feeble attempts
at communication,

because I know it’s my fault.
I’m silently vile and
I upset them with my
ominous sickness,
in which I linger like a rain cloud,

and tonight a fight starts
and my mother’s insults turn viscous,
so my claws come out as well,
and my insults are viscous
in their indifference
and are irrelevant to
the reason for my bitterness,
which has swelled
in me
as the only powerful force
on my static sea.

I cannot hold my tongue,
because if they have long suspected
something was wrong
they could have offered a hand.

But no.
I guess outright admission
that your son is some sad freak
is shameful.
but I was in need of something I refused,
and you could have confronted me.
or better still,
you could have helped me out by understanding it
and at least recognizing that your abstract and angry criticisms
were not going to help.

that’s what I resent the most.
the criticism.
treating this like a choice.

when you feel weighted down
with the twenty tons of black stones
the only choice you have the strength to make
is whether or not to break,
and time eventually
kills your endurance
and takes that choice, too.

“So just be okay, sonny! Jesus Christ, you’re not dead!”
must have been your thoughts.

But I'm not so sunny
and I see no light
and you should have seen that.
I could forgive easily
and I do often,
just as you do,
but this anger bubbles up
when you pretend that it’s all on me.

I know I’m bile,
fine,
but if that's what you truly think of me,
too,
then I must be born of bile.

Bile that loves me,
but can only show contempt,
and bile that I love,
but I can show nothing at all,
unless anger when attacked.

I say I’m better,
but I’m beginning to realize
that just because it was once worse
does not mean I’m healed.
I don’t know how much I can take
when in the world
I feel hopeless and alone,

and in your home,
everything I do,
including all odd attempts to save myself,
are apparently personnel insults to you.