Thursday, March 6, 2014


     It is this thing between us. Something we wrestle with all the time. This thing between us is something about me, about what I used to be. It’s my fault. We don’t talk about it. We use polite words, small words. I just get tired just trying to carry it but, I’m afraid that if I let go it will sink into forgetfulness but it won’t ever go away. It can’t. Your father sees it. He’s said, “You brought him home. You promised him. You deal with him.” And your mouth gets grim. We go to bed but we don’t touch. I try to please you but feel I have let you down, somehow. I can’t be good enough. Do I have to atone for something that I used to be? I don’t know. This thing between us, this silent thing, is turning into something else. I can see it gaining energy in your violent indifference.


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