But he’s more real than the three visible people
He’s tougher too. Tougher than the three of them put together
It’s three against one, and every day is a battle
He wins every single day. His name is Despair.
He feeds on the three people, and on each sign of surrender
The confused ramblings of the 90-year-old with dementia
The unseeing eyes of the 75-year-old pretending to read the newspaper
The sighs of the 60-year-old who cares for the other two and lies all the time, even to herself. Are you okay? Yes! Are you lonely? No!
He feeds on it all. And grows stronger.
He loves it when visitors come to the house. Sunshine, friends, children
They feel his invisible slimy arms and run away
I feel him in the heaviness of my limbs. He gets into my head and says, “what is the point of anything, huh? This is what it is, see?”