A Question of Caring

"that's incredibly unhelpful."

A finger in the smoke.

Violent flashes of images from the night before
  or possibly days, weeks earlier,
(for the cuts have healed but still mar,
memories of:  laughter and hands upon silver knife hilt,
                maniacal struggles; paired wolves in a desert forest
                hands twisted like tree roots etched into steel, one howling
                blade tips and t-shirts to an unseen moon       
                where did we go wrong? 
                and was this hole always in this shirt? 
                The other stares hellishly with eyes of the Demon itself.)
                                                              (herself?)
 
Hangover breakfasts;  o.j. and toast, hash browns with ketchup,
eggs over-easy: prodded until yolks weep over the whites--
it all runs together.

And who are these people, anyway?

Blank faces.  Delayed reactions.  False smiles of sorrow.
Perhaps a sadness; a mourning for reasons incomprehensible.
          don't parents look happy anymore?
          are people so blind?
everyone repeats themselves these days.
          are we so deaf?


And am I to be held accountable for my lack of


                      interest?