Sunday, April 6, 2008

This is gonna hurt you more than it's gonna hurt me.

This one is a tough one
for me.

I told my friend
about the money
in the safe.

His eyes lit up
and we talked
about it
that night,
what we could do.

We spent the last of
our money
on a bottle of scotch,
because the decision
was already made,
we'd catch the train
in the morning
and we'd grab the cash
and that would be
that.

Sometimes,
I am terrified
by my lack of morality.

Sometimes
I have to scream
to drown
out the voice of
the Angel
which sits
forgotten
on my shoulder.

This one is
tough
for me,
now.

There are ghosts
in my room
at night,
and in my dreams
the guilt scabs
dark red
over the deep
wounds of my past.

We downed the scotch.
Every last drop.
And I was numb.

Here's where the hurt is.

In the morning
we caught the train
back to the house
with the safe.

Except,
she was there,
she wasn't meant to be there,
so I had to think fast
and I lied
I lied
I said,

there's a fucking big spider in my room
and my friend took her into my room
and together they lifted the sheets and
took the paintings off the wall
and she was saying,
where, where, there's
no spider!

But I was in the other room,
heart drum
and thump
sweat and red face
hot,
reaching behind the dresser
to grab the key
to open the safe
to grab the cash
silent now
the door creaks
have to do it slow
and steady
but there's not much time
the spider web
lie
won't stick for much longer

that's it

it's done.

Two thousand dollars,

we're going to Sydney

me and my friend

away from this house,
where I am afraid to sleep,
where every footstep
is terror
and every word spoken
holds menace like
a mace,
blunt and bludgeoning
and
primitive violence.

So I'm going away,
I'm running
and I won't be haunted by
her face
that little sad face
that came out of my room,
bewildered by the
invisible
spider.

And I won't see
the panic
in her eyes,
and I won't
see how she knows
that something
has happened
and I won't see
how she knows
that she will
receive the
punishment
but will do so
gladly,
to see her
youngest son
run free.

And it will take fifteen years,
for me to wake up crying
and saying,

god, I'm so sorry,

I'm so fucking sorry.

Mum,

I'm so fucking sorry.

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