Unmade - FIRE AND ICE, part 2

Let this not be poetry. Let this be a reckoning. John. You are a groomer. You are a predator in plain clothes. You are a bastard carved from rot Too old to claim innocence, Too vile to fake remorse. You lusted after what I could’ve had Twisted jealousy dressed in sickness. Like David, you lusted after another’s soul And slaughtered me While calling it justice. You tried to kill me Not with a knife, But with silence. With shame. With lies. You aimed for my soul, And shattered my heart and mind. And the hearsay whispered, But no one dared to speak aloud. You preyed on teens. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Still girls Not women Your daughters’ friends And you knew. You knew what you were doing. You leered, You lingered, You looted their safety With your mouth, Your eyes, Your hands, Your hunger. You are a sex offender In everything but name Escaped only by cowardice and cover. And I reported you. But silence is a shield For men like you. So many F***** questions… What have you done, John? Who have you touched? What have you broken that never healed? How many victims wake up sweating From the weight of your breath in memory? How many girls bury their voices So you could keep your name? John, a fallen shadow among us, A devil cloaked in disguise, A heart full of lies. Crystal Later, you were at a funeral. And you hugged that man Who abused his wife And abandoned his family. You touched me Out of pity. I didn’t even recognize you. You F****** leech of a whore. But why would you care? You were the one having the affair. You became his whore, like so many others he’s had Like when he was a truck driver, Picking up prostitutes along the road. All you had to do Was follow me home. Be the fire. Be the light, Bring my soul back to life. We could’ve built our home anywhere And I would have taken care of you forever. But instead You were a fiend in the night And eviscerated my heart, my mind, and soul. John The failure, the fraud, the filth. Who called himself the man When he beat me down. Your life is its own testament to a ruined legacy. My poem “The Child of Perdition,” Dedicate it to you, John. You’re nothing but a frail, spoiled, narcissistic beast. You should have finished me then Just like back then, I gripped a pen. Swore vengeance in ink, sharp as your lies. Now I stand, my words a blade that never dies, Mightier than your withered, sagging sword. And if I disappear If I’m found in pieces or silence It was him. Or someone who carries his rot.