and this is the language of our conversation.
you are angrier today,
fork drawing scars across your plate.
i am breathing quietly.
when your voice climbs to a volume
the neighbours can hear,
i blink a little longer each time
until it feels like i am closing my eyes.
i pretend to be three years old again,
too small to wear sadness properly
so it slips off my shoulders and puddles at my ankles.
my mother picks it up and puts it on.
you watch from the table,
a smile threatening your lips.
my eyes open
and you are still screaming
and she is still gone
and i am barely here –
but here enough to feel your fingers
as they grip the steering wheel of my wrists
while you direct traffic towards the kitchen sink,
moving like an ambulance through a crowded street
collecting corpses on your way.
i am a good mortician.
i say i love you too when you say goodnight.
i am an even better liar.