I've been avoiding home lately because
home is where my noise turns into
static
into nails on a chalkboard
into the grinding metal of a head-on car collision.
When I ask my mother how she is doing, her mouth is flat
as flat
as the empty space of her bed.
She is the one who can make the world
believe that "I'm fine" and suffering and lonely
are synonyms for one another, a language
I know all too well.
Living with a parent who has chronic depression means that you become the parent, too. It means making sure she leaves her bed for the day,
that she doesn't drink too much every night,
that she doesn't spend too much time alone.
It means I will become accustomed to just how loud the silence can be.
I want to yell at her with every single cell of my body, letting the reverberation
chip away at the loose paint on the walls.
I want to cry in front of her, but we both know just how hard that can be.
This silence between us is a constant
ringing in my ears that I cannot
shut out Mom,
it's deafening Mom,
can you hear me? Mom,
can't you understand that this noise is the only sound echoing these walls? Mom,
when you ask me
how I'm doing, I reply,  
"Fine."