Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Monster I Am

Warily and doubtfully
I proceed into the hall
skeptically but hesitantly
looking for a monster
a demon I taught myself to fear
a relic of my childhood
something he'd warn of
as he fried left-overs
he might smugly laugh
from over his shoulder
"it'll run you down...
one day."
the kitchen stunk
like skunk
and incense
and Sriracha
I would never go into the attic
past dusk
where my train set lay
with my record player
and my bookshelf
A getaway by day
the den of some hell beast
by night

Fried pig fat
floating in grease
my spoon is rust ridden
my napkin's been used
my father coughed the day's lung
and forgot
he'd slurp rare steak tips
splash the bread into the diluted blood
and mash it into his beard
like a ravenous Celtic warrior
he'd giggle in his beer
and sickly say
"your monster is already

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