Eight

eight.
i felt most violated
when you denied it—
evidence may have mounted
in the mouths of other victims
but i haven't spoken—
even in the wake of certainty,
family and loyalty
forked my liar's tongue—
maybe it's enough
that you know what you did—
because i can't bring myself
to hate you.

seven.
your son's beautiful—
you were my first
and i don't regret that—
in your arms,
i realized myself.

six.
it wasn't my fault—
i received the letter
years too late
and suicide
has never been sympathetic
in the eyes of those
who suffered to live—
yet, i write for you,
remember your face acutely,
long for the night
we bathed together
and you told me
God hated us.

five.
i wrote a poem for you—
it was long and vitriolic,
full of anger's energy but—
halfway through,
i realized you aren't worth it—
have a nice life,
long and unfulfilling.

four.
you hid food under the bed,
said we were bad children,
did everything in your power
to make us feel unwelcome—
however, you're a good mother
and a better provider—
my brother loves you,
and for that, i'll lay my loathing
if you lay it second.

three.
i liked your apartment—
the exposed brick and
stainless steel kitchen sink,
the bathroom mat we fucked on
and shower i knew intimately—
i miss your cock,
your spacious bedroom,
and not much else.

two.
how many drinks did you have?
were you drunk
or just tipsy, clumsy at the wheel?
what [or who]
was your last thought about?
did you feel it
or was it instant, like the pathologist
promised your family?
if i said i didn't go to your funeral,
would you laugh and say—
sounds right—
like i imagined?

one.
the first time,
i lied—
i wanted your stability:
your home
your money
your sex—
but you never set a price
and that's why i fell,
even if i tell you
it's because
i adored your smile.