"What's wrong?" I'm asked
A question, sincere
Laced with generational insincerity
A question, almost social
Tears threatening to leak
Concern laying however, with the following insincerity
Secrets unspoken, bitten tongue
One two three, the colours I see
Grey silver green
Stepping back in my spot unmoving
The question is more than a question
And words casual can mean more than first glance
Head turned away and gaze following
Stares unshared

As if I'll ever choose
To voice the letters scribed into the contours of my tongue
When any following response
Will only deepen the dents I have scribed
The contours that cause my speech to turn awry
And my vision to return to basic observation
One two three