what next?

Familiar words resounding carelessly through the night.

You tell me not to worry, like every father should.

But with your words comes no intended comfort, as you, in her trap,

seem not to know this façade to be so transparent as it is.

And anyhow, these words are as much for you as they are for me,

for us; the ones you love.

My feet are cold, but this I only notice as they warm.

For not as cold as the tone with which your fatherly line has hit me.

The clandestine reprimanding of my similarity to mother,

and no doubt, your mother too.

Putting me to shame for grasping helplessly at your glittering mask of sweat,

and trying to rip it down.

Who are you really reprimanding?

Was it my misfortune to be the greater at the door?

With mum asleep, and keen that I should know as she does.

Would it be different if I embraced your act,

and fastened all your frontiers with a welcoming smile?

It would be easier thus for you to believe.

Whatever your intentions you cannot be trusted.

For she who has you in her grasp is strong, and will not gladly let go.

Though you were ours you have given yourself to her,

and we will never know you like we did.

You stare, astounded, back at my uncompromising gaze,

fearful that I wear a better disguise than the one she gave you.

What?

Did she not tell you what to do next?