His father saddled him up
To the shiny, broken garden swing
And pushed him up and down until
He laughed.
Laughed pink and beautiful.
His father didn't listen
As he broke into tearful sweat
It wasn't his fault
That his son went and bruised himself.
He laughed.
Laughed black and torn.
His father poured himself another glass
As his drooping lids drank in
A mother moping with cuts as big as voracious precipices
And a son,
With the only bandage he could find
Looking for the ugliest wound
On her paper-thin body.
He laughed.
Laughed bright and gaping.
His father looked the other way
As a boy who used to be his son
Stuttered out of the closet
And grovelled at his feet
In tears.
He never wanted a son.
He laughed.
Laughed slurring and childlike.
Laughed as his son
Looked at the creaking swing in the garden
And got an idea.
He saddled himself up
On the shiny, scarlet binding rope
Fixed his eyes upon his father's sleeping body
His mother's sleeping body
Both of which would sleep forever.
He looked at their photos on the wall
Through the shimmering salt in his eyes.
He looked at his favorite doll, his favorite toothbrush, his favorite everything
And swung.
Swung like the shiny, broken garden swing.
This time,
He wouldn't see himself laugh.
YOU ARE READING
Blots
Poetry[On hold] Key: |Straight Brackets| - Poetry. \Tilted Brackets/ - Passionate, Vaguely Poetic Prose or Free Verse. ~Wave Brackets~ - Poetry specifically between 1 and 3 sentences in length. ☆☆ For everyone, Who finds, Not in a graveyard or cretamorium...
