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So sorry about your lies.
Those ungrateful hidden truths that burn you. So sorry you have to hide just to feel loved. That must really suck. To be so close to someone, only to have it blow up.
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“We just do our thing, and if the kids go along, then great.”
“And if they don’t?” “Two incomes and one house sure would be easier.” “It would. Would you like that?” “That’s the plan.” “What plan?” “Did I ever tell you that I was in a movie?” “Yeah, back to this plan…” You kiss me. You kiss me again. You run your fingers through my hair. “I’m in love with you.” “That’s a good thing. I’m in love with you, too.” I kiss you. We stare into each other’s eyes. Everything melts away. “You know. You should know.” “Know what?” “She adores you. She adores yours.” “Ah, yes. Well, most kids do.” “No. You need to know this. It’s important." “It is. I need that. I need that love. I need your kids to love me.” You needed it for a reason. You needed it for a season. Now that season has come to pass. The leaves have left their branches. You’ve moved on. All I hear are crickets. A grifter of affection.
Sweet, facade infection. Dilerious intention. A stain on the family name. A user of people. Church AND steeple. Collector at the pew. Twisted pulpit stew. A black box of messages. Unlock the vestiges. Shun the answers in light. Redirection is his course, veiled uncertainty his horse. His mask a white knight Questions asked - his kryptonite. I caught you.
Not coming home, you lied. Why? We're all adults here. Grown ups. A full century between us. "I need to back away" you said. "To figure myself out" you said. Dude. At fifty-two, what's left to figure out? She's left her husband. You stayed the night. That sums things up, right? There was a sickness in that man.
Not the kind any doctor or pills could fix. Oh no. This was the kind of sickness affixed to his soul. Like a devil’s hound digging up bones, it would show itself briefly, between the shadows. Between the bellows of a hellfire lay a quagmire of hopeful paladin clothing, twisted and moaning, draped over a frame of mind he could not contain. He longed for a wash, a full-gutted cleaning to escape the reaping his sickness seemed to rain. Running through the crow fields; searching for a mother to bring his children home, he became the devil’s hound digging up bones for another mother’s babies to choke down. There was a sickness in that man. Oh, he had her.
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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