Dad's getting better, I promise.

I went to the hospital today.

 

Defeated in my protest,

dragged ragged sandals hidden under threadbare denim seams

over the ash and gravel littered parking lot, 

hoping the errouneously placed tiles in the greeting room would give

and swallow me whole.

Containing my unbashed scorn;

secretlty hoping you would succomb to the wounds  

so we all could suffer just as quickly.

 

I am angry still. 

I want my father back.

 

I am enfatuated by listless eyes

pandering in the elevator; the smell of

surgical latex breeding with noxious fumes,

encouraging me to leave all emotion

sedated at the door. 

 

Too many have left their salt here,

I am the oldest. I am the wisest. 

Yet here I am not among the brave.

My hands clenching in and out reaching for some hope of 

fixing what I cannot even remember;

trying to say hello but feeling as if the tracheotomy 

sensored my words.

My worst fears confirmed; 

that I am weak,

and you are mortal.

 

I suppose that is what happens 

when a sense of heed is not taken,

and an interstate road is hungry

for the flesh of man, consuming all in its wake 

but leaving one to spill carcass, 

a validation of my lucid dreams

ubruptly ending in minutes, continuining

for the last thirty nights.

 

Knowing just

how we both feel, but incapable of expression.

 

Leaving the hospital,

causing a quiet scene.

Mom says, "You're so cold, you don't care. Incapable of emotion."

 

Lies.

I am raw with emotion. 

 

When he is well, 

when he is well,

redundancy dancing in the peripherals of my mind,

when you are well. 
 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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