a modern construction

The walls in this house are like a blood-brain barrier,
letting the strange voices seep through,
sustaining me on vitriolic echoes while
preventing the infiltration of
biological refuse from disintegrating emotion, 
that conversion of exothermic to endothermic reaction,
that peripheral touch that might have caused me
not to wake from my slumber,
not stumble across the house
with my mussed hair and cloudy vision,
not witness the death of anything resembling wholesome familial connection.

The heat in the room sparks and sizzles
with syllabic exactitude between their bifurcated origins.
I am left cold
with fear and confusion.

Weeks later,
the biggest, strongest man I know
will spill his salty sadness upon my pillow,
leaving me, at the mature age of five,
to pick up the pieces and
reassemble the puzzle of our days.

A few remain missing, though;
I can still see through the veneer.