Yes, I know, not the slashy HP braindribble that everyone expects here. I was more in a poetry mood last nigt, anyway. Slightly influenced by the movie "White Oleander."
It was always
such a compassionate gift that you gave me;
a wreath of flowers, a tea packet holding a memory
that was dear to you.
I took them for granted, over time,
never said the words you wanted to hear,
never learned my manners like any good girl should.
I realize that I was cruel.
My smiles meant nothing to you
when I gave them freely, without feeling-
and my flattened palms
upturned at the perfect angle
to recieve your small gifts
were nothing more than little knives carving out your heart.
Still the muscle
beats brainlessly on, a primal rhythm
by the world spinning by,
unless you make known to it how hurt you are.
How did I become so blind?
You stood there, just before me,
ready to place a wreath of flowers atop my head:
and I, eyes clouded with indifference
took it from you as the rain fell,
and am just now regretting not letting you in
as hair clung to your face from the raindrops
on my doorstep.
"And where was the wife?"
The preacher couldn't save them.
It happened early, on a Thursday morning,
when dew still clung to the grass;
he dragged her outside, kicking, screaming,
nails drawing blood from anything she could reach.
The neighborhood clamored to watch.
He beat her, they all knew
but no one had ever seen him this angry;
and her! She flailed like a wildcat
with one paw caught in the trap,
the other raking white thorns down his leg
determined to take bits and peices with her.
He cursed and swore and slung her about harder
before leaving her in a heap
on the front lawn.
"Get the hell away from here." He spat.
She cried until the sun went down, then slept till it came back up,
and stumbled, bitter, from the green uncut yard
to hitch a ride for the city.
"So sad." The neighbors whispered.
"And her his daughter, too!" They hissed.
"A sin." The preacher shook his head. Not even he could save them.
No one knows where the girl went,
but the father died soon after
over a bottle of beer,
with diceitful thoughts of her small white breasts
swimming in his mind.
The town all talked for months to come
of a Thurday morning fit to raise the dead
and the preacher thumped his bible and said,
"Not even the good Lord Jesus Christ could have saved 'em."
Dood, I am so twisted.