full of moxie and viscosity

while dylan waits for the night owl,
he lets me
blather on about my inability
to contain, control, coerce
my emotions.
watching the street lights
on my father's beige truck
i am convinced
that my eyes are alien,
and my voice is heard.
my mother is not asleep when i go inside.
she does not approve of my
uncontrolled emotion-
fearing i end up in pain.
has she already forgotten
how easily i cuddle up
inside of my broken dreams?
we both try not to roll our eyes
and i kiss her goodnight anyway.
children sleeping in my bedroom,
and my sister's,
i have to be quiet
while i get ready for sleep;
lest the children wake up
or my mother turn her eye.
in the morning, perhaps
the test will not be on paper
but rather in dreams and night lights.