Monday, November 25, 2002



I’m used to the silence.
Even the scraping of forks is torturous.
Sitting at the dinner table
Staring at the same white plates with red rims
That I’ve been eating off of for the last twenty years,
Chewing without tasting the green beans in my mouth.
Pretending that there really is just
Nothing to say,
Or all four of us are tired,
Instead of the fact that my parents just don’t talk
At all anymore.

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