Don’t laugh – you might wake her up.
Keep it together, don’t tell her what’s the matter.
I hope you enjoy shouldering troubles alone
because halfway through life, she can’t handle
the pressures of being a seventeen year-old girl.
This house is a morgue.
We’re immune to grim things.
And the steel tables don’t feel cold anymore.
Nothing feels real anymore, except
the stale jokes we use to clear
the stale, dead air.