“It will never happen to us,” the couple said to themselves, and still it did…
But how right our parents are in saying we are their sons and daughters, their words
somehow getting lodged into our brains, was all we could fear, was all we became.
Even as we promised we’d never be them, it was all we were allowed to claim.
So as we settled into our lives together, learning our own language, wrapping ourselves
into a blanket of complacency, we let the monsters of childhood sneak in, their faces like
mum and dads’, beasts in the living room. Our pasts awaiting us like spectres of doom.
We thought we could ignore our demise then, fill the void with parties, so-called-friends,
one blind eye always on the End. So I met your parents after a time, and, in doing so,
killed mine. All the things we choose to hide, all the secrets adults shake behind.
Thus two broken houses became a home. Old lovers anecdotes, betrayals swept under
rugs. Our demons uglier than our household bugs. But I could never say what needed to
be sung. Denying it was anything more than a malady of the tongue.
So this was couple-hood: tennis on weekends, masturbation in the dark. I turned black
inside to save me from blackening our lives. You drank, I lied. You laughed, I cried.
Washing the sheets and making the bed to hide my crimes.
I cheated on you with my mind. I cheated on you with porn. Chinese girls in Chinatown,
Chinese massage parlors with Chinese décor. My vindictive sense of values.
Anger turned inside out. The whole business of adulthood nicely thrown into doubt.
I became my father’s father, and every man before him. I grew horns and a tail, I
concealed the evidence, hid them well. That men invented deceit, could only mean he
knew defeat. For women are different from the men, more sensitive to these things.
And the men hadn’t the heads to ask themselves how everything they did went straight to
hell. Didn’t stop to care, didn’t notice
the drop of blood on the tear.
But somehow I always hoped you knew. My revenge for your gossiping friends, goading
the beast under their breaths, washing their hands of the whole thing once it all went
dead. And before we knew it the years had passed…
The shrinks getting paid for their part in things, their coffers filled even as we returned
the rings. But who’s to blame? For we are products of our own creation, everything we
wanted to be, cheating ourselves more than anything. So the heartache
of our ending remained between us. Our pets weren’t real, our hearts we’re steel. Still,
the love we knew will always be. Our monsters afraid of the heart. Our moving on like
two actors playing their parts. Cobwebs over our once-happy whims, our tennis rackets
and our dreams like relics of the grim. So what’s left of our lives is now spent starting
over once again. The mirror laughing at our aging skin, our nights spent alone in fetal
position. Still I hope you’ll always know, what I felt then takes the place of letting go…
Author Bio:
When not standing on the remnants of his Aesalonian fatherland, Falconhead is writing poetry, fiction, drama and essays. His work has appeared in Transcendent Zero Press, The Charles Carter, shufpoetry, TWJ Magazine, Syndic, Straylight, Nazar Look, The Rock River Review, Still Point Arts, GNU, Folia, Whimperbang, Antiphon, FictionWeek Literary Review, Pacific Review, The Red Line, Sein Und Weden, Peeking Cat, Route 7, The Corner Club Press, Naugatuck River Review, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine, Wilde, Story Shack, Poetry Potion, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Meat for Tea, Poetica Magazine, Camas: The Nature of The West, Huesoloco Journal, Glitterwolf, Whistling Fire, Two Hawks Quarterly, Rock & Sling, Adanna Literary Journal, Deltona Howl, Plath Profiles, Green Wind Press’s “Words Fly Away” Anthology and KY's "Getting Old" Anthology, among others; and is forthcoming in several more publications. For his poem “Man-Made God or Poem In Which The Hypochondriac Gets His Way” Emerge Literary Journal awarded him “runner-up” in their 2014 poetry contest. You can follow Falconhead @ https://twitter.com/Falconheadpens
But how right our parents are in saying we are their sons and daughters, their words
somehow getting lodged into our brains, was all we could fear, was all we became.
Even as we promised we’d never be them, it was all we were allowed to claim.
So as we settled into our lives together, learning our own language, wrapping ourselves
into a blanket of complacency, we let the monsters of childhood sneak in, their faces like
mum and dads’, beasts in the living room. Our pasts awaiting us like spectres of doom.
We thought we could ignore our demise then, fill the void with parties, so-called-friends,
one blind eye always on the End. So I met your parents after a time, and, in doing so,
killed mine. All the things we choose to hide, all the secrets adults shake behind.
Thus two broken houses became a home. Old lovers anecdotes, betrayals swept under
rugs. Our demons uglier than our household bugs. But I could never say what needed to
be sung. Denying it was anything more than a malady of the tongue.
So this was couple-hood: tennis on weekends, masturbation in the dark. I turned black
inside to save me from blackening our lives. You drank, I lied. You laughed, I cried.
Washing the sheets and making the bed to hide my crimes.
I cheated on you with my mind. I cheated on you with porn. Chinese girls in Chinatown,
Chinese massage parlors with Chinese décor. My vindictive sense of values.
Anger turned inside out. The whole business of adulthood nicely thrown into doubt.
I became my father’s father, and every man before him. I grew horns and a tail, I
concealed the evidence, hid them well. That men invented deceit, could only mean he
knew defeat. For women are different from the men, more sensitive to these things.
And the men hadn’t the heads to ask themselves how everything they did went straight to
hell. Didn’t stop to care, didn’t notice
the drop of blood on the tear.
But somehow I always hoped you knew. My revenge for your gossiping friends, goading
the beast under their breaths, washing their hands of the whole thing once it all went
dead. And before we knew it the years had passed…
The shrinks getting paid for their part in things, their coffers filled even as we returned
the rings. But who’s to blame? For we are products of our own creation, everything we
wanted to be, cheating ourselves more than anything. So the heartache
of our ending remained between us. Our pets weren’t real, our hearts we’re steel. Still,
the love we knew will always be. Our monsters afraid of the heart. Our moving on like
two actors playing their parts. Cobwebs over our once-happy whims, our tennis rackets
and our dreams like relics of the grim. So what’s left of our lives is now spent starting
over once again. The mirror laughing at our aging skin, our nights spent alone in fetal
position. Still I hope you’ll always know, what I felt then takes the place of letting go…
Author Bio:
When not standing on the remnants of his Aesalonian fatherland, Falconhead is writing poetry, fiction, drama and essays. His work has appeared in Transcendent Zero Press, The Charles Carter, shufpoetry, TWJ Magazine, Syndic, Straylight, Nazar Look, The Rock River Review, Still Point Arts, GNU, Folia, Whimperbang, Antiphon, FictionWeek Literary Review, Pacific Review, The Red Line, Sein Und Weden, Peeking Cat, Route 7, The Corner Club Press, Naugatuck River Review, Outside In Literary & Travel Magazine, Wilde, Story Shack, Poetry Potion, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Meat for Tea, Poetica Magazine, Camas: The Nature of The West, Huesoloco Journal, Glitterwolf, Whistling Fire, Two Hawks Quarterly, Rock & Sling, Adanna Literary Journal, Deltona Howl, Plath Profiles, Green Wind Press’s “Words Fly Away” Anthology and KY's "Getting Old" Anthology, among others; and is forthcoming in several more publications. For his poem “Man-Made God or Poem In Which The Hypochondriac Gets His Way” Emerge Literary Journal awarded him “runner-up” in their 2014 poetry contest. You can follow Falconhead @ https://twitter.com/Falconheadpens
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