• yesterday, my mother asked me,

    am i the bad guy?

    i replied, mother, no, of course not

    the tone of voice
    of a sweet, placating viper
    venom behind my words

    cyanide hidden in wisps of sugar water

    i lie to protect her ignorance

    she said to me, i didn’t know

    i asked her, how could you possibly not know?
    how could you possibly not see?
    how did the screams, pouring from my mouth like soldiers,
    marching off to war,
    escape your sight?

    how could you have sat there
    and let the last shaking straws of my childhood
    slip between bruised and overly-sensitive fingers

    she said to me, i didn’t know

    she didn’t know? she didn’t know when she forced that shirt
    down past my crying face
    that the slightest whisper of fabric against my arms
    felt like the nerves beneath my skin
    were being crucified?

    she said to me, i didn’t know

    the space between my fingers.
    a testimonial of the times when she never held my hand
    the laundry room, a silhouette of razor-shaped memory,
    the bathroom, the ghosts of neglect like tear tracks on dirty tile

    she said to me,

    i knew

    she knew, when she bellowed at him,
    to just, deal with his child

    that her autistic child, silent and faded,
    a distorted portrait of fears they dismissed,
    held her head between sweaty palms
    and wished, for their screaming to stop
    so her voice could come through

    hoping desperately, for the spittle,
    spewing from their mouths as they scream
    lies in each other’s faces,
    to somehow wash her away,

    just,
    hoping

    she said to me, i knew

    i replied to her, i know