With Apologies to Crane, et al

I am not always
reminded of you

(in truth,
less than you might imagine,
but more than I like,
still)

but when I am,
I find myself
overwhelmed with remembering you

as older than I am
now,
rather than older than I was
then.
I imbue you with knowledge
I am sure your present self has,
but your past self likely never knew.

We were all children,
and if I want forgiveness
for the sins of my youth

(petty and horrific
as they were)

then I suppose I must forgive you
for yours.

Sometimes,

however,

I wonder what it would be like
if I were never forgiven,
what it would mean for me
to not forgive you,
what I could do
with that power;

I would still likely crucify you,
if I could,
just to see you suffer.

I never pulled the wings off flies as a child,
never tormented something in that way,

but I could see myself doing it to you,
plucking your limbs
and letting them drop,
still wriggling,
immune to the sound of your screams
as though I could not hear
something so tiny
and so obviously insignificant.

I gave you weight,
I give you weight,
still,

but God you are

just

 

 

so

 

 

 

 

heavy,

I fear I need
to put you down
for good —

for my own good.
I must eat the rest of my bitter heart,
and finish it–

finally

–relish it,
because it is bitter,

and because it is my heart.

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