I have to see them,
though enslaved in rusted chains.
Clinking quietly,
Cold with dread,
Mind so etched in pain.


I have to greet them,
in that practiced way -
Unchanged, rehearsed, untrue.

How don’t they see the child who died
,
When they did what no one knew?

I burn beneath my frozen skin,
a war of guilt and duty dressed as care.

They call it love,
But love would not begin to smother me with shame and leave me there.

I can’t not go -
Though every cell protests
My presence their request.
I cannot leave -
They'll grieve,
For them, not me,
It's always been the same.

But to see them is to bleed to death - in fearful silence still.

I stand between two fires, both against my will.

There’s no escape.
I have no voice.
I brace myself to burn.
I’m just a guest, 
unheard, disturbed,
And I will never learn.