Do you know
what I can’t tell you?

Do you hear
what I can’t say?

Do you see
what I can’t do?

Do you?


Do you know
that
if I didn’t think you would hate me
I’d tell you

Do you know
that
your son says up late at night
stifling his tears
against his pillow

Do you know
that
your daughter draws skeletons
in her thin black sharpie
she stole from her teacher’s desk
on the back of her neck
where no one will see them

Do you know?

Do you hear
me
singing softly in the thunderstorm
when I know I can’t be heard

Do you hear
the hushed insults we listen to
from mothers who don’t understand

Do you hear
the dripping of the water pipe
downstairs
as it corrodes away the floor

Do you hear?

Do you see
the way I stare at him
when I think no one is looking

Do you see
the small cracks in the corner of the bathroom mirror
or
the clean slit in the back screen door
right above the handle

Do you see
the A+ papers your daughter brings home
or
only the C+ papers your son brings home

Do you see?



Will you ever?


What will it take to open your eyes?


How long will it be until its too late?