‘Childcrash: or How to Get on with a Grown-up without Your Own Company' - a Poem

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Listen. Don’t interrupt but let him interrupt.

Pretend it’s normal, not hurtful, when he speaks over you only to repeat himself.

But if you can’t pretend that your heart is not in pain,

Two options remain:

You can either feel that protruding scar but pretend it’s no bother

When he blesses himself, tells himself you’ll forget and goes on to forget.

Nothing. No one understands. Never him. That’s what you get.

The other option is to take action

Speak up, ask why he makes you feel unheard, and how, why and where in the world is that called love?

In which case he’ll say,

‘Darling, stop wearing those radioactive kid gloves. They make you feel unloved.

It’s normal. Not me. I’m normal.’

 

Expect his answers to your questions to be empty monosyllables

Or better, don’t ask any because apparently

He doesn’t have a split split second, we repeat, a split split second

To spare,

Evidently too busy occupying himself with despair, worn chairs, and pairs and pairs

Of shoe-shaped mares,

Imaginary,

Mounted on his back

Minute minute by minute minute

Which is why,

He has no time to answer

Even to give you that ssingle, non-cancerous answer.

 

The world doesn’t stop when you’ve got your crescent-shaped, burn-caked curiosity chopped off.

He’ll laugh, sociably crawling ever higher, calling you antisocial.

He’ll tell you to get more friends

He’s done nothing, all your profound shyness belongs to you – all the, or rather his, play-pretends.

Plucking those friends from an overgrown garden he randomly visits

He stuffs friend after friend

Into your full mouth

Ignoring your lungs’ painful protests

Telling you that those friends

Are healthy vegetables, indispensable

Good for your social health

And that he’s doing this – raising his voice to talk over your screaming, flooded eyes – for your own good.

 

 

 

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