One of Six (or Sick of Six)

Every now and then, I detach
From the talking and the laughing.

My skull splits in two
So that my right hemisphere
Can peer into the left:

It finds my younger self, sobbing,
For he cannot speak up
And air his grievances
Lest he inconveniences
A heavily burdened family.

The grief drips down his bronchial tubes
And festers.

We thought we would grow out of it.

But the grief grew
As we watched its roots wrap around our ribs.