I translated the message
using Google and it
said something about
film actors. I think
someone has hacked
my phone, my father says,
his voice bubbling with
unhealthy excitement,
a rush of madness, making
him see ghouls and
eyes on the ceiling;
evil, disfigured succubi
and dirt and mud.
I’m angry that he’s burdening
me with this. I want to
scream, Haven’t you troubled
me enough? You wrecked two
lives with your delusions.
Deciding that X is A on a whim,
or letting caprice make you
take it out on poor Y while
we looked on, scared, scarred
and motionless.
My load’s already cumbersome,
and I want to jettison
the past, forget the future,
and hold the present,
and let it carry me to
another dimension
with each ticking second.
I don’t want an overarching
theme of paranoia
changing the tone of
the pages of my life.
I guess, both
father and I approach
things in the same way,
and similarity breeds contempt.
And so I listen, masking disgust,
but not hiding it enough to
feign concern. I don’t care
about the madman who refused
to seek help and declared
with an oracle’s firm tone that
he’s not insane, but I care enough
to pray that I don’t end up
like him, perceiving my shadow
as an imposter, hating the angles
at which the walls
meet each other,
slapping myself to justify
that I’m also hurting while
two helpless souls look
on, praying I’d disappear.
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
Ordinary Person 
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