Sometimes I look at you and wonder when
exactly, when
the beginning of your voice
started sounding like a scratched record

and at what point, exactly,
did your eyes change to being so dark
all of the time

I want to know at what point, then
had you learned to smile so factitiously
and **** in your gut
and pose at the right angle

I want to know, more than anything
when you started being so
miserable
all the time.

And the more I think about it,
about you,
existing,
the more terrified I feel.