The Casio Plays

I want to tell everyone what you did – because then everyone would know who you are.

A thumbtack on a map that no one sees, a pussy grabber and self-loathing pedophile, but only for me and my knees in barefaced roleplay. That is me, a slice of pie and poison ivy amid a horror story #metoo movement exposing the corruption of celebrity hand prints and billionaire pelvis. Your finger hushes. I’m sugar and dust, composed of single witness events / a shrine preserved inside your typewriter / a thumbtack on a map no one sees.

There is no #metoo for this. There is no one else so rare.

People say that all the time. “No one understands.” / “You don’t know what it’s like.”

APPREHENSION APPREHENSION, the voice box stiffens with restless legs and disassociated apparitions of reprisal. It’s our grief stricken bias that forgets there is always someone out there who has been through some of what you have been through. You can find each other in support groups and on social media, sharing the similarities of your experiences – bonding over broken trust and slowly resolving trauma.

But this…

Society cannot explore what you have done. Or who you are. You’re careful / and you don’t get caught. A million fans are none the wiser to how sly you lie and slip away into your malicious malcontent – the eclipse of doubt, fluttering eyelashes to cast a shadow to busted knuckles.

A rapist. A murderer. Infatuated with your daughter. In love with love and lovesick for possession – the rose colored tea pot and smoking tongue – doting on the dots that freckle kindred sunkissed cheeks. You chase them like constellations.

Your apologies are always followed by erotic exposition.

I know love is not a game to you – but your behavior is. You get wist away by lying / how many deceptions can one man carry inside of his mouth / that mouth is an enclave controlled by your thighs and a loneliness you admit to no one but me. You struggle to look at yourself in the mirror because all you see is a distorted interpretation of the man you have always wanted to be. You are old, and you are scared.

Demons leave behind the smell of sulfur, and it’s soaked into my pillow from all those nights you snuck into my room to watch me sleep – a pelvis on the prowl – monomania always lurking within the lining of every limb. You’ve stripped us both down into precarious reverie – trauma disguised as fortuity that lingers in sonnets that swell on my tongue whenever I miss you. Which you made sure is always.

Always / a bed full of flowers.
Always / three kisses at a time.
Always / a smack so hard the blood leaks down the back of my throat.
Always / “do you like it when I hurt you?”
Always / words of affirmation.
Always / the way your knees sink as you crawl between my legs.
Always / a rousing humid breath.
Always / “say you love it when daddy fucks you”.
Always / sucking your thumb.
Always / a history lesson.
Always / a concussion.
Always / “look at me, stay with me”.
Always / satisfaction. Always / submission. Always / worship. Always / forever.

No one saw you redesign your soul to be one in which I feel empty without. The father of a first glance. I’ve become someone who needs you. Without you, I have nothing, and no one, because you are the apogee of all that starved me since my burdened birth.

My youth is in a box with you – Stockholm Syndrome – fighting for a way to open my mouth and scream your crimes through the stereo.

But nothing comes out. The Casio plays. A plastic Barbie on the beach. I unfold my heart into your warm hands.

I know you will never face judgement day / because I need you when I am tired, greedy, bereaved, and wild – I am a tragedy. Your tragedy, to be tasted by your private compulsions, bundled up like an infant against your chest. That heartsick heartbeat that aches only for my attention, bruising the sternum, until you squeeze tighter inside of me. There is a sound your throat makes when you convulse with ardent fever and pious aphrodisia – sometimes I hear it in my sleep – it wakes me up and I look for you around the room. Pathetic and touch-starved.

You create and destroy me repeatedly. But you are who you are because I am in your life. The violent acts you’ve committed would never have come to fruition had you not have danced with me in the rain or kissed me, half-naked and wet in a tent ten minutes later. The dead may still be alive had you not have impaled my virginity in the frigid water, or allowed your loneliness to influence your integrity into ignoring how young I was / unaware of the breeding lacing our germs and follicles.

I never asked anything of you, but I can’t ignore these scandals took place because I live / and so long as I live, you will never learn how to stop / I watch you wash the blood off your hands and I pretend it’s red velvet and smeared lipstick. I have never been so silent.

No one knows what type of lover lives underneath your name. A rapist. A murderer. Infatuated with your daughter. Anything to protect me and to keep us together. Space won’t help me forgive you but it will command me to miss you / because your love is tyranny that fits perfectly among my molecules. I can’t blame you anymore when I know I have pervaded your life just as much as you have mine. You may be a monster, but I am not an innocent. You keep my secrets. You become my lies.

I want to tell everyone what you did – but then everyone would know what you are. 

And the Casio plays.

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