"Welcome home."

It is quiet

And I am too dry,

too susceptible,

to turn a page in the grasses.

Paralyzed in grief

Forcing a stillness to comfort me

Hearing resonance in news anchors

And non-existent whispers in the staircase

My steps are opaque

but my heart is what bears the affliction.

My only choice

Has already been determined.

Silence is everything.

Swallowing words

And choking on soap

This invisibility is heavy.

And it’s bruising my bones with rings,

and stripes

that I have earned,

or,

so I am told.

I am cemented in hushed sounds.

A statue of faded zeal,

Face chipped with snide

decorated,

seen and not heard.

“Don’t let it get to you” and

“This doesn’t concern you”

Like I am to be as forgetful

as a generic apologetic template;

As silent and ambiguous

as early morning fog.

On that 747

I thought I had escaped the nightmare

when really, I just entered a new one.

A new one that

that

I used to call

“home.”