Playing With His Food

I don’t know how to tell him

that he’s losing me

while I witness him

playing with his food

so he doesn’t have to meet my gaze,

a boy trying to figure out

how to become a man,

all the while, my insides are worn out

from his shadows with which I stand

because all I get is pushed

and shoveled away,

a bed of roses buried underground.

The words clog at a lump in my throat,

we operate on alternate levels,

and there’s really no one to point the finger at—

of course, except for me,

since I have to care so heavily,

as if I’m God,

as if I wield power,

as if I’m some sort of special,

as if I’m not just another human on this planet,

a boring brunette, a trinket, a name on a list,

but I thought I meant more than that to him,

and yes, I’m overthinking it,

but what else is there to mull over

when he won’t open wide,

when he won’t move in stride,

when he won’t use my shoulder,

he just blames it all on getting older,

and I blame it on myself for being a tool,

so we both sit here, stunted,

chewing on nothing.

I love him for his best and at his worst,

he loves me but has a long list of work to get through first,

and that’s when it’s my turn to avert my eyes from my own truth

because it’s one I’m not ready to swallow yet.