John Sargent, A Dinner Table at Night (1884) 

Source

At first you ask to talk, but
Burning deep within is the burden of words, a
Cacophony of voices in your head,
Driving despair like a stake into wetted
Earth, a haze that settles in and just won’t shift. You

Find a time and place to have the talk, you
Go with the flow, tell it like it is, whilst
He squirms beneath the weight of
Innocence lost, guilt like a pall of smoke drifting in. He
Jokes about not meaning IT, but there is a
Knowing that transcends the clarification of intent, that
Looms larger than any image words alone can paint;

Meaning that you don’t believe for even a second that
Nothing he has done was not intentional
Or that there is any penance that may grant him forgiveness.
Polite silence. A litany of burning, unasked
Questions; how did you get HERE, is there a path to a
Return, resolution, a coming back to the way things once were?

Silence at least means
That more words to regret are not being said
Unwillingly you realise that this is a stalemate, no
Victor, no vanquished, only victims
Wrestling with the detritus of pain and
X-shaped scars.
You realise with unstinting certainty that this is it, the end;
Zero-ed out.

—
For the Day 10 Prompt at NaPWriMo – an abecedarian poem. Definitely one I’d like to revisit given how difficult it seemed for me. Thanks to The Fray’s How To Save A Life for rescuing me. 🙂