Discomfort

When a character shows 
no willingness to adapt,
my character shrinks to 
the corner and shivers 
at the thought that 
suffering might be borne
that might have been prevented
by the sufferer mid-suffering.
It is a scar that opens monthly
and bleeds a little on the carpet
reminding me that my father
was a closed man and that his
closure often seemed to be
on my account, for that thing
that I could never have controlled.
I become vague in my discomfort. 
I dissipate into a room like a gas,
finding the walls, bouncing back
toward another wall, continuing
my middle school dance tradition
of avoiding contact, becoming
one with taupe.