Mask

I don't remember any of my babysitters, just the fog on the window by the front door spreading from my breath as I watched my mother leave with some other vagabond. The blur of the school parking lot as I watched my father drive off into another month of absentia from behind solemn eyes. My brother was hardly ever home, and when he was he chased me around wearing a Halloween mask.

Family ties hanged on broken bonds. The noose is too loose to stop our fall. But we've learned how to love each other. We've uncovered each other's scars; well, at least I have, but sometimes I doubt they really know me at all.

I threw that Halloween mask in the trash, and forced my brother to wear his true colors when he wanted to kick my ass. I just wanted to be close, but he enjoyed knocking me over a little too much to notice. We aren't even really brothers. We only talk over intoxication.

My dad was my hero, before the fall: before I saw how pitiful of a man he was when I was gone. I still think he was a coward for hiding behind those bars.

And my mom was the only one that stood by me. Though her hand oftentimes only sought mine when she lost hold of her wandering affections, I never stopped her. I just wanted her to be happy.

My criticism is no malicious vengeance. I've been trying to digest all the frogs I swallowed throughout my youth. They croaked in my throat until my voice box grew sore from their sallow songs. It feels good to vomit their truth.