by Mercy Thu Nov 03, 2011 10:10 pmAge eight you were bent over in the yard
our dog barking and sniffing at the air
your bloody hands trembling as you held the creature
voice quiet,
“I love it.”
I assumed you meant the squirrel.
Age ten,
I found you on the bathroom floor
blood dripping from your elbows onto the tile
You claimed you were testing your pain tolerance.
Laughing as doctors sewed your arms back up.
In high school,
you drew blue blood from pale flesh,
fist drove into teeth.
Playing with pocket knives
and pistols,
instead of soccer balls and video games.
No matter how many times I grounded you.
Leaving me shaken
as the principal called me in to talk about your
‘anger management’ and to consider therapy.
Your face haunts me
the media lurks outside my window.
Misty eyes glued to flickering televisions
as you sit there at the podium
devilish grin on your face
as you deny everything.
Even though they found,
a heart in your freezer.
I tear through photo albums,
Reminiscing at your baby pictures.
People don’t want to hear,
how you brought me flowers on Mother’s Day
how you were always
smiling, and laughing.
They only want to know
how you are going to be punished
what other things you’ve been hiding
under the floor boards, and in your attic.
I could not bring myself to call you a monster.
I still want to believe
you loved that squirrel.
our dog barking and sniffing at the air
your bloody hands trembling as you held the creature
voice quiet,
“I love it.”
I assumed you meant the squirrel.
Age ten,
I found you on the bathroom floor
blood dripping from your elbows onto the tile
You claimed you were testing your pain tolerance.
Laughing as doctors sewed your arms back up.
In high school,
you drew blue blood from pale flesh,
fist drove into teeth.
Playing with pocket knives
and pistols,
instead of soccer balls and video games.
No matter how many times I grounded you.
Leaving me shaken
as the principal called me in to talk about your
‘anger management’ and to consider therapy.
Your face haunts me
the media lurks outside my window.
Misty eyes glued to flickering televisions
as you sit there at the podium
devilish grin on your face
as you deny everything.
Even though they found,
a heart in your freezer.
I tear through photo albums,
Reminiscing at your baby pictures.
People don’t want to hear,
how you brought me flowers on Mother’s Day
how you were always
smiling, and laughing.
They only want to know
how you are going to be punished
what other things you’ve been hiding
under the floor boards, and in your attic.
I could not bring myself to call you a monster.
I still want to believe
you loved that squirrel.
Last edited by Mercy on Wed Nov 09, 2011 9:14 pm; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Edits to the poem)
that means a lot
