You never responded to the result
Of your actions, the terrible end product
That would never end, that always set ends
To everybody and everything in slow motion,
In taught motion, yours, everlasting, ever burdening,
Her shoulders, moulded by your condemnations,
The pitfall of your nails, the flesh, her salty skin
On the bed, on the tip of your tongue, stardust, erased,
Forgotten, swallowed, in a haze.
Your mother told you how awful women were,
How despicable, how stupid, she fought against her
Own sex, disconnected from herself and her body,
The men that beat her, put on a pedestal, a man’s right,
She let destruction happen to her, teaching her boys
That women are the worst and she would take their punches,
Orchestrating her own demise, why, and for what, they’d
See her as the only exception, maybe that was the point,
The holy mother, the only good woman amongst them all.
But she hated herself. She didn’t live, she gave, her life,
To you, you devoured it, took every piece of her flesh,
She considered it rubbish, disembowelled, away with it,
Away from her, misogyny in women, the sex, unfelt and gone,
The breasts in the way, untouched, unappreciated, robotic,
She banished them from her body, out of mind, flesh bursting
From her flesh, nothing more, she unsexed herself, dehumanised herself
For the sake of raising boys, she broke them, they internalised her
Self-loathing, her depreciation of everything female, so cold, so repulsed.
And she had a daughter. The weak link. The body of pure agony.
The sufferer. All of them. I wonder how she must have felt under
Your mother’s damaged wings, the father’s permanent violence,
Showing it off, the vicious power, the abuse, his hands, his fits,
How he was still the king of his own world, everybody crouched
And shivering, wanting to be hurt, wanting to feel connected,
Through pain that the child misinterprets as love, it’s what they could
Get, from them, all they could get, the comfort of the familiar, the
Prison, still idealised, still praised, still replicated, nurtured.
There’s a reason why you were the way you were.
There’s a reason why she is mentally ill.
Stuck in a marriage, taking the beatings.
Letting her son be shunned, nowhere to be found.
The code of honour is to never break the vicious cycles.
Every generation owning it to the other to stick to the inherited guns,
Fights. Loyal to the dead.
And wade through the same old godforsaken shit.
All of you, mentally insane, planting the seeds, keeping it going.
The mother, beaten to death. The brother collapsing from one
Mental institution (that has nothing to do with healing) to the next,
Almost eviscerating his own family with his urge for decomposition.
The daughter seems a lost cause too, addicted to the suffering,
Thinking she couldn’t do it as well and gracefully as her mother,
Couldn’t live up to her mother, accepting the sickness to spread.
She is doing the same thing to her daughter, devouring her,
Needing her until death parts them both.
And then there’s you.
You, the other brother, you who fled, but took it all with you
Anyhow just to end up creating your own version of it,
Thinking you’re liberated without ever realising that every
Single part of you was still living in that war zone that never
Wanted to end, until almost all of us, shut you out, cut it out, stopped it,
Then and there, here and now, every single day.