Visiting Time

We are the people that nobody visits.
Our bodies bloated. Eyes glaring. Bananas named.
We are difficult.
Not easy to hold. Not like the girls downstairs with soft hair. On their arms and faces.
Little girls with pink wigs and teddy bears.
We are not easy to love.
To witness.
So we sit beside each other.
Against each other.
Eyes locked.
In fury.
We hate. Resent. Provoke.
Pace. Hug knees.
Mirror every single movement.
Mirror every single non movement designed to hide ourselves.
Our real selves.
The ones we checked in at the door.
Bananas. Crackers. Nuts.
Fuck ups.
Waging war in ballet shoes and pyjamas.
Whispering like little girls. Fighting like soldiers.
We are difficult.
We are difficult.
We can no longer recall why.
We cannot see the door.
The door where mothers and fathers come in and out.
Arms full of flowers and cards.
Our rooms smell like antiseptic and smoke.
There is little colour.
There is little comfort.

I take a photo of my face.
My scrumpled up eye and frown.

I look at myself.
I can still love.
I still love.
I wait for you.
The time you will come through the door.

We are in the place that nobody visits.
I will wait. Until you come.
Until you are here.