sábado, septiembre 25, 2010


And then you ignore my words,
but I have taught myself to not feel bad about it.
You come home and do not ask about my day,
I tell you anyway; I am sure you will like my adventures.
I cook; add the last slivers of cheese to the lasagna.
You eat, fast, never making conversation.
And I want to die, but I don’t know it.
I want to cry, but I don’t feel it.
Slowly, both these desires, will come to me;
It will take years.

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