Take me and place me, where I am easy to ignore. This is what I am used to. Hidden and silenced, without a fight in me.
There is little hope that I can repair my relationship with my family. We march on, loudly silent. We do not look each other in the eye. The suffering is behind a pride, that developed too late. We are shaking, but standing. Nothing matters anymore. Words are wasted. Actions are weak and insincere.
These tears, or any of them, are now an act of manipulation. I have felt nothing close to pain, in the face of my father’s wrath. I am defiant and solid. His eyes hold me up. But when he turns away, I am decaying. Collapsed on the ground, convulsing out my soul. The taste of life, just a blurring recollection of crooked smiles, formed by shyness and discomfort.