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.
Copyright ©
G. Jay
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