When your mother made us dinner
I tried to speak,
really I did, but between
the internal monologues and the
inside jokes between step brothers
and step fathers all of my words
became too jagged,

the edges of my sentences
were crumbling buildings
against the darkened skyline

and looking up, your step
father gave me a weird look,
I think you had told them that
I used to have an eating disorder
and they were watching me
suspiciously to note what I did
and didn't fill my plate with,
eyeing the conspicuous fold
of my napkin to see if I had hidden
anything in it

but I told you I wasn't like that
anymore.

Your mother said she had heard
so much about me, my cheeks
red, expectant, I am a good little
girl, I always want to please,

I even took seconds, didn't
let my eyes wander to the corner
of the room like they usually do,

she asked if I had gotten enough to
eat (a good mother, I thought at the
time,) but she knew all along,

like your step brother spying
into your bedroom from the
living room while you rested
with your head in my lap,
pulled me into a deep kiss,

he knew, that sickening smirk
spread across his face like
wrinkles that will one day form,

they all knew,
I was just their silent guest.