bealcne-blog

[bealcne-blog]

“It’s easy for someone to joke about scars if they’ve never been cut.”

— William Shakespeare

[bealcne-blog]

After more than a year, I try to find the reports of your death.

Instead I'm met with pictures of you and your two daughters.

They look like you,

so I cry for them.

And for me.

And for all you've taken.

I don't know their names, I'm sure I could find them If I looked,

but it feels wrong.

They look like you,

so the fear in my head is rattling around once again,

looking for a place to escape.

A crack in a wall.

A split seam.

Their father was a monster, the thing lurking underneath the bed.

Hiding in the closet.

I wonder if their mother knows.

Did you tell her?

About me?

I doubt it.

I hoped that it would haunt you,

would eat away at you until all that was left was fragmented bones

Sharp and angry, a warning sign for others who got too close.

It didn't.

I cry for your wife.

Who's slept with my monster in her bed.

Did we share you?

Did his sharp teeth ever show?

Did his hands ever leave you cold and raw?

Or did he shave the matted fur from his back for you?

File down his fangs?

Swear he was a good man.

God, he could've been such a good sales man.

Almost comical.

I know many he's sold broken truths,

Faulty stories,

Lemon lies.

They look like you, // J.L.