wolfdog

She looks at me with that look again. Disdain? My hand is on the plate of food as I take it from the waitress. I’m hungry. I’m pregnant. I’m tired. 

But that look. It makes the body-feelings secondary. Why is she looking at me like this? What did I do? 

I’m confused again, everything feels charged.

Something I said? 

I try not to care, but I also don’t know how deep the root goes.

I’m not hungry anymore. 

Instead I sit across from my sister, knowing she will never tell me why she looks at me this way occasionally. We sit in what I wish was uncomfortable silence.

Instead we talk, and joke, and laugh, and I try to forget the way she looks at me sometimes, like I don’t deserve a damn thing.