Who Is To Blame
The question is, who is to blame?
I often ask myself this question with no other thought than to torment myself. I have always concluded to admit (though it is a straight-out lie) that I am to blame. I am the cause of these insecurities…these torments…these infernal thoughts—my literal insanity. A part of me actually believes that lie! I am in awe. Can you fathom such a thing? A lie that I know is in fact a lie is so deeply strung in the recesses of my brain as to lead me to believe that is IS the truth! I am to blame. Why justify this lie into ostensible innocence and truth? Who the hell do I have to convince!?
I think I mean to torment myself to the grave…I have justified many a lie for that sole purpose. On the pedestal the lie rises and engulfs the spirits, taking with her the very pride and dignity I pretend to promote. But what is the pleasure in a lie when there is no one to lie to but yourself?
So I lie today and every day. I write hour upon hour of useless words that I, in all of my nothingness, can only appreciate to its fullest. And I laugh when somehow through the valleys of mendacity, a raw truth emerges. It has many eyes and many ears. It can be tasted that someone…someone out there has been convinced.
I remember my wife was holding our child
I had just lashed out at her,
Had beat her to the core
With the brutality of my merciless words
She was trapped in the fury of my hellish present,
Sucked up in the very heart of it
What haunts me the most…
Was how calm the baby was through it all
There she was in hysterics,
Literally out of breath in her own sobs,
Clutching my daughter’s little hand
In her feeble, sorrowful embrace
She looked into her eyes
The child was looking straight into her soul
I paused from my torturing and watched,
As that serene child never looked away
From the globes of her mother’s eyes
Straight into her pain-filled life,
Trapped in the ugly, sticky redness of her sagging cheeks
I wonder how one so young
Could even bear looking into the face of raw sorrow
That void was beyond me…
That child that day…was not my own
A crack of a smile appeared on her face and I completely lost it
She enjoyed her mother’s sorrow!
She enjoyed it…
If she could only see me now…
How happy—how happy that child would be
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014
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