To My Dead Grandfather,
I used to wish I could have met you
Dreamed of you reading me bedtime stories and of my potential love for you
After I found out the truth all I have dreamed about is my regret your
Death wasn’t torturous enough to suit your crimes
Physical damage will not satisfy my need 
Piss on your soul; mutilate the fibers of the cross-stitch that
Holds your two-face together
I dreamed I could have been there and watched you
And I wanted to be the one to do it.
To have killed you.
Slowly, carefully, methodically with a distinct purpose in causing you as much harm as possible
I would carve out your half-heart while it’s still beating 
I would endure your screams just for the pleasure of watching you cry
I would tune them out because your tears make me smile
They are payment in the form of droplets of water pouring from you eyes
God made hell with scum like you in mind
The Devil was too merciful; letting you die
Alone on the side of the highway
Letting your body decompose until the stench forced someone call someone to dispose of your rotting corpse
Your unclaimed body still sitting in the morgue
Terrorized at night, your daughters had nowhere to run or hide
Tears tattooed beneath their eyes, trailing down their cheeks ending in a haunted stream behind them

2 thoughts on “Grandfather

  1. As a grandchild of vicious abusers I can identify personally and directly with the writer’s experience and anger. I’ve witnessed first hand the effects of years and years of physical and sexual abuse my mother endured at the hands of her father, grandfather, and other male relatives and have held the same contempt for them as the writer holds for her/his grandfather.

    If I may, my own opinion is that these abusers, despite their vile and contemptible actions, are (or were) human beings and themselves victims of recurring cycles of sickness. This is not to dismiss their actions but I have found that acknowledging their humanity and understanding their existence within a bigger picture (be it familial, societal, etc.) has helped me to deal with their abuse and its effects in a more healthy way than to just spit on their graves (though I certainly relate to that too). I also refuse to allow my contempt for them poison my soul and find that seeking to understand who they were and why they were serves to heal, rather than to fester.

    My heart goes out to the writer and I hope he/she finds some peace through expression of feelings.

  2. I feel the anger behind your words, mine simmers constantly. I don’t know if my abuser is alive or dead but he will be with me always. A reminder of a childhood lost. Nothing can give back what was lost but I too hope you find comfort in knowing that you are not alone and even if we can never forget we may learn to be at peace with the past.

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