I suppose it can look rather strange
To an outsider
When his words tie each other up
And strangle out of his lips,
Kool-Aid red

Because they cannot grasp
His refusal to play tag
Or eat white foods
Or wear anything green
And his preference for being alone
With himself

But the outsider isn't around
For the few rose-scented seconds
In which he smiles at her.
And his mother thinks that maybe,
Maybe,
The therapy is working.

Until the seconds pass,
Too quick for outsiders to notice,
And recede into eyes of stone.
The smile turns to gun powder,
And his words tie each other up again.