A quiet revulsion sets in
with eyes opened,
but only looking inwards.

There's a painting
hung on a blue wall,
and he wishes it was him.

Quietly, revulsion creeps in.
Always listening
with a subtle grin.
Nary a sin.

Ceiling fans spin
on
and on
whipping motes
and dead skin
into a frothy,
stale tasting mix.

Choking down every gulp
of air, quietly revolted,
yet ever smiling.