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(image from fiestapinata.com)

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Hung low 

upon the strongest branch

of your oak tree,

I allowed my own slaughter,

our blindfolded children

you and that other woman

so kindly raised to master 

use of your verbal machetes, 

you spun them

'round and 'round with twisted truths,

cunningly directed them for many years,

by your pathetic, hopeless fears,

with skillful cowardice,

weilding their innocence

to carve the gashes just so,

slicing me open,

like a party pinata 

at a reunion,

you. 

and your sick family,

you always used to say

how much you hated being 

outnumbered by women 

growing up,

i hang lifeless now

in their eyes,

from the butchering,

the tree branches curved,

and the leaves withered,

and as my blood drips down 

to feed your roots,

 the only scintilla 

of honesty you seem to 

be able to muster from all those years,

 --that you have not changed at all,

and for myself, 

my once empty hand is full of

what is left,

--only compassion for you,

feeling what it must be like 

to be you,

and who i was 

long ago.

2:34 AM 8/13/2013 ©

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