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You are not the cinder block of aggression that kept the bathtub from touching the floor.  You are the ears below the floor, you are crouching beneath the cottonwoods, slowly molding into the support system of a 1950’s kitchen that a man’s hands learned to bleed between.  You are his father’s sweat when he delivered him from his mother, you are the fists he used to pound his reasons, a woman’s tears seeping and melting in resin.  She lay barefoot before you, completely naked sliding her hands between her knees, wondering why the bare spot is so empty when there are bruises on her eyelids, on her face, in her mouth; Why there are no hand prints where there should be.  The prettiest parts of us become compromised with badges, badges we tell ourselves make up for the battlefield we were too young to witness, she wishes she would have learned ballet when she was young, when her hair still held shape. When she slit her leg and bled crimson you caught her. You watched the human race become disgusting with desire. You are composed of the same wood they used to keep a cradle lit. The wood of a casket, the same wood of a white cross in a room of crying soldiers who finally realized they served no benefit.
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Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
From the Eyes of a Child
You are not the cinder block of aggression that kept the bathtub from touching the floor.  You are the ears below the floor, you are crouching beneath the cottonwoods, slowly molding into the support system of a 1950’s kitchen that a man’s hands learned to bleed between.  You are his father’s sweat when he delivered him from his mother, you are the fists he used to pound his reasons, a woman’s tears seeping and melting in resin.  She lay barefoot before you, completely naked sliding her hands between her knees, wondering why the bare spot is so empty when there are bruises on her eyelids, on her face, in her mouth; Why there are no hand prints where there should be.  The prettiest parts of us become compromised with badges, badges we tell ourselves make up for the battlefield we were too young to witness, she wishes she would have learned ballet when she was young, when her hair still held shape. When she slit her leg and bled crimson you caught her. You watched the human race become disgusting with desire. You are composed of the same wood they used to keep a cradle lit. The wood of a casket, the same wood of a white cross in a room of crying soldiers who finally realized they served no benefit.
haus
Written by
haus
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:00 PM UTC
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