He said it was all her fault.
“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here”.
“Your welcome”, her quick thought response.
This didn’t match this stories tone.
What had he meant?
Where had these words gone?
Why are they back?
The weight of it she carried unknown to her.
Since she was twelve, she thinks.
Sour and confusing then,
Sour and confusing now.
All the times he abandoned her.
It was he at fault
She wanted to scream.
The voice box failed her,
Like it would many more times to come.
Vengence, if not with words then visions perhaps?
At least one outlet where justice is done.
Cast her back,
What would have changed the course?
Maybe a stab to the weak pathetic heart.
The turkey’s fork pulled out at Christmas the chosen weapon.
Steps are all rehearsed.
The many angles, the fall from grace,
All within reach.
Over the years the fork became a knife.
As the years went by, she saw a pin knife,
From there a slick sharp knife from the block,
The type that made small work of turnips,
The type that would be swift,
Pain free, no mess.
No removing the weapon,
Only the watching of the magic of its clean borders,
Yet life seeping away
His Eyes following in search of salvation,
Or saving.
Chest up and down,
Pronounced at first,
Then resigning to the ultimate freedom,
Embracing the ultimate regret,
Blame no longer present.
Final breath, final words.
I am Sorry.