The monster does not always appear on screen swinging an axe. He holds
the door open like a gentleman. Pays the check. Tells jokes so funny they
make you cover your teeth self-consciously. Impresses your friends with a
story about that time he met Mick Foley at a Bob Evans. Your brother gives
him the If you break her heart, I'll break your legs speech but is absent when
your sweat pants have fused to the couch and the only
conversation you’ve had in months is the press of your finger on the remote
when Netflix asks Are you still watching? Yes, bitch! You are still watching
your family misunderstand your depression. You are still
watching them theorize and deduce and come to wrong conclusions about
why you no longer hug your uncle. Or brother. Or any male relative. You
could have explained everything last Thanksgiving, when you drove out
for the long weekend. But come Friday morning, you were gone before the
frost kissed the grass. And you did not kiss your mother good morning or
good-bye. You figured a tale of violation would spoil her breakfast. The
only thing she looks forward to these days are that black coffee, those over-
medium eggs, and the times you come home. Maybe you used to trust
people enough to tell them ugly things. But the first time someone
followed I’m so sorry that happened to you with That just doesn’t sound
like him, your body became a chopping block. Heavy. Scarred. A once
thriving whole, pieced out for its usefulness.
*This poem won Second Place in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.