food sits dispassionate and untouched

content with rejection

white trash bags split at the bottom, wheezing for air

no angel of death stole the breaths of a baby brother that floundered unnoticed in the periphery

no cankerous apprehensions

my father is downstairs in our home

he loves me

but i feel the pestilence in my foundation

i stew in bed as the air conditioner hums harmoniously in indolence

the inertia of my panic lifts me in the direction of my death

and then i become my malaise

gripe, griping, grievances, and resent

was i molested

was i abused

did i suffer

then why do i suffer?

why must i belittle your pain

with my selfish despondency

misplaced angst

i don't understand what it's like

i don't pretend to

but i feel

and i offer my solicitude for the muted

tolerance for the moaning recluse

we the vagabonds of these united states of america

do stand together as transgressors

for we did not perpetuate the myth of unconditional thankfulness

we may never comprehend appreciation

but we attempt to delight in the folly of sympathy

i musn't speak for all the others at once

but for me

the person i am told to forget

with my subtle decency, with my crumbling purity

with my gentle goodness

I present my love.