I wear many masks.
I’m sure you’ve seen them.
The one I don the most
I call The Good Son.
The Good Son is quiet.
He keeps to himself,
His burning truths
Remain stifled inside.
He does not let fly
His bottled venom,
Instead swallowing it all.
The Good Son is dutiful.
He wipes your vomit from the toilet bowl,
As an accomplice wipes down a crime scene.
He washes the sink,
Watching evidence swirl down the drain.
The Good Son is patient.
He bides his time until he is free.
He faces your drunken insults with stoicism.
Your slurred words only fall to the floor before him.
The Good Son does not engage.
His time is devoted to being scarce.
He remains cloistered away in his room
From your roaring curses
And thunderous door slamming.
Within his fragile dwelling he comes to realize…
The Good Son is breaking.
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