Dysfunctional Families, Murder, and Dead People.

Unspoken

Tires go screwy
caressing the pavement.

Hybrids of conifers and
flowering plants, blur across
glass.

A tune from a show
titled shadow . . .
creeps through my throat,
hardly visible.

Scars peel open
and close like stomata,
their pain suffocated
by linen on blue sheets.

I walk; I speak,
"Thank you,"
hardly visible
I trudge through my niche
fermenting,
unspoken.