L U P S C H A D A . C O M an exercise in self-indulgence
There is no excuse for the interruption of my life, again, though you feel you've been wronged, maligned for fifteen years by a time-sweetened representation of the truth.
I'm sure you felt justified, nonetheless. Though you implied your reputation was a product of exaggeration, you spoke of closure with a straight face and crossed legs, you knew from the beginning what I knew:
I am broken, I am closed around your wound like an abscess, there is no re-entry without unleashing an infection bound to my soul for more than half my life.
Yet there you were, sitting across from me like we had chanced upon each other in a coffee shop.
We can speak of reasons; the ones that sound nice
I loved you as a child. I loved you in my heart.
And the ones that are true
My therapist wants me to make amends with my past, my most recent divorce was painful, my patients wonder why I have no children. My girlfriends wonder why I have no children.
And the ones that get right to the heart of it
You sprung from my hand like sweat of exertion. Don't forget who owns the property, not for a moment of your distant life.
Other words dropped through the air, instead, each casual question a dull lead weight. I couldn't tell you how I'd been.
What were you asking? In the last five months or the last ten years?
And when I did want to empty myself, to tell you everything before you had a chance to ask, you finally stopped, you shut the door again
I only want to hear what you want to tell me.
So I said nothing, and you left with all the quiet drama that had marked your arrival, and I was left hanging, an expectation laying half-unfurled in my lap, a flower picked too soon.
Your wake was longer and more terrible than your presence, leaving me uneasy on the street, where I always look behind me; planning for your next appearance, wherever.
And the letter you left me is in my desk, where it lives perfectly unharmed, the object of my unholy protection, memorized, and signed
with love, your father
Maybe you knew how many hours I would spend staring at those four words, how the ink stained my eyes. Your abuse of language is unforgivable; on that paper were the two cruelest lies I've ever seen:
Cruel, but not convincing. I am not even sure you aimed to convince. Your only real mission was carried out with the efficiency of an execution; I am still afraid.
If I ever felt I'd gained a freedom, or forgotten I'd been without it, you serve as a reminder that I am not free yet, I am still struggling against a man who only exists in nightmares,
that I remain agonized,