I am always there.But they don't care if I ambecause I am furniture.I don't get hitI don't get fondledI don't get lovebecause I am furnitureSuits me fine.

Or maybe I am justoutside enough,being the footstool observing from the corner,that I have a view of reality.

If I could just open my mouth wide enoughto allow those gagging blobs of truththeir slow, tar-seep passageup through my gullet, with barely enough oxygen to keep from passing out while they glorp over my tongue,those truths would reach my teeth, where if my jaw weren't unhinged,I might bite them offso I couldbreathe again.

The foam cushionson the old couch downstairsdisintegratedailyin a hush,like each of us,small flecks ofhardening puffsraining mute to the floorwhen I flop down to study.And the more the couch gets used,the less foam it keeps--somedayjust an uncomfortable frame,springs and other inner workingsexposed.Silent.

Yaicha runs.He sits down, tired,and says to mom, "I'm sorry you had to see that."Inevitable that he does it.But he doesn't really want a witness.

Not scared.But excited in thatjiggering-on-too-much-hot-saucekind of waythat it's time tostep outof my old framework,raw and amorphous,to become something I've never thought of before.

Yaicha is named after a songby some group from the last century called thePousette-Dart Band.Something about a girl, a candle in the falling rain shining amidst the pain.I kind of surprise myselfwhen I can picture Yaicha as that candle.My father named Yaicha after the "haunting melody."I wonder if he ever listenedto the lyrics.

I like her explanation better than just being a diminutiveof someone else.

Why am I not good enough?At least he loves Darren and Yaichain some wayeven if it's horrible, he shows them attentionand I am furnitureI get nothing nothingnothingno thing

You've always been skinny,always will." I can feeleachreclusivebonepoke through,the bones of Embarrassment,Anger,Relief.I push some back in,but leaveAngersticking out.