Thursday, October 28, 2010

mom

It's not you
it's not me
it's that bad kind of wondering
what could possibly hurt
or what could pass as unloyalty
to the person you'll become
if the wrong kind of word is uttered
it's that specific kind of tone
abuse it and that'll be
the end of our nice conversations
I'll have ruined every other
plausible way to bring you closer

I can hear you sob
in the kitchen
wiping your nose with your fingers
squeezing your eyes to stop dripping
I can hear you wondering inside
what the fuck went wrong this time
and I simply can't find the stomach
to come and grab you
and talk of it
I can hear you hating me right now
on that table where you kindly
lay dinner for us
without it ever seeming full of effort
cooking used to save you
cleaning too;
but now I've grown into this other
kind of being who may eat outside
who doesn't mind dusty corners
or spots on the glasses

And I have kept so much inside
things I've not said, or done
things I've tried to ignore
thinking they shouldn't matter
believing they would vanish in thin air
should I choose not to insist on
but you see
it's like when you toss a cigarette
off the window of a speeding car
the stub goes out but your sleeve
fils with ashes

So I sit in the other room
listening to those tiny sounds
knowing what 's the matter
end up doing nothing
as I keep looking
for the right words
for that right tone
that will let me be me
and you be yourself;
if I choose not to speak to you
it means I haven't found them yet.

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