thirty year old monster

you festered in your mother's womb for eight months
(i'd say an extra month would have done you well)--
pickled in her brine, her opiate brine.
and then you were born, pulled from the brine
and into the bog of her small existence.
and when you were born, your pickled brain
grew smaller and smaller by the day.

this was the end of your innocence.
your dad, a man with the convictions of a louse,
a man whose hands taught you fear and shame,
was always to blame, wasn't he?
this man's hands, without the callous of an honest day's work, plucked your heart until it was small and barren.
all the while your mother lived in clouds of beautiful oblivion.

i suppose now comes the part of the story where you are excused, pitied, and forgiven.

but you are no poor medusa, wailing on her own island,
beating her fists at the injustice of the gods;
telling her loneliness to the dust.
you are a monster of a different sort, a peculiar kind.
you have your good credit score and your thirty two inch waist.
this is not the stuff of legends, nor tragedies (tragic as it may be).
one day, may we both, each to our own broken life, look back and laugh at the horror that was your love.