I am not always
reminded of you
(in truth,
less than you might imagine,
but more than I like,
still)
but when I am,
I find myself
overwhelmed with remembering you
as older than I am
now,
rather than older than I was
then.
I imbue you with knowledge
I am sure your present self has,
but your past self likely never knew.
We were all children,
and if I want forgiveness
for the sins of my youth
(petty and horrific
as they were)
then I suppose I must forgive you
for yours.
Sometimes,
however,
I wonder what it would be like
if I were never forgiven,
what it would mean for me
to not forgive you,
what I could do
with that power;
I would still likely crucify you,
if I could,
just to see you suffer.
I never pulled the wings off flies as a child,
never tormented something in that way,
but I could see myself doing it to you,
plucking your limbs
and letting them drop,
still wriggling,
immune to the sound of your screams
as though I could not hear
something so tiny
and so obviously insignificant.
I gave you weight,
I give you weight,
still,
but God you are
just
so
heavy,
I fear I need
to put you down
for good —
for my own good.
I must eat the rest of my bitter heart,
and finish it–
finally
–relish it,
because it is bitter,
and because it is my heart.
