He'll ask me why I'm here.
I'll tell him I don't know.
And that's true in so many realms, but
I'll keep the clichés to myself.
And there might be some
silence.
And then maybe he'll ask
if I've ever hurt myself,
or thought about hurting myself,
which I guess is
the pleasantest way
of asking if I use my cutlery for eating
or for breathing.
And I'll shake my head no
as I subtly turn my arm
face down.
Because that was a younger–
older–
shameful–
proud–
self-sacrificing–
but mostly
self-centered–
me.
And who likes to bring up
Her
in polite company?
So then we'll sit.
Maybe more silence.
He'll start asking questions
I don't really want to answer, but only
because they bore me.
And maybe he'll bring up ***.
Or not, but
we'll end up talking about it,
and he'll read something
into that, like it's
always on my mind, but
it's not.
It's just
the only thing I know how to do.
He won't chastise me,
but he should.
And then someone might mention
school, and ah,
here's the real problem, he'll think.
I'll launch into my grades
and the fact that they barely exist.
And he'll ask me why,
but the most I'll be able
to tell him
is that school just doesn't really
do it for me.
We might talk about that
for a while,
but it'll get old quickly
when all I can repeat
is how apathetic I am,
one way
or another.
So
he'll ask me why I'm here.
And
I'll tell him I don't know.