The Pedophiles We Leave Behind
I finally understand why
you kept reminding me about my family
between 2013 and 2018;
it was not because you fucking gave a shit,
but because—
I don't want to be right about this.
I don't want to write poems about this fucking insane, horrifying bullshit
but very rarely, if ever, does the Osura Pesuasang lie.
One filled with that much shame
must really be trying to hide
something as fucking insane
as Homelander,
and I'm quite sure you haven't killed anyone. Unless I've yet to learn better
about just how much the exallos allow you to elide.
So, this instead:
you wanted me to be a little kid.
And that's why you treated me the way you did;
why making out wasn't good enough,
even though you were the one who fucking insisted.
Because you wanted something more.
You thought Kevin Martens—
not just such a fucking whore,
but someone cute. Someone adorable. Someone who can stand-in for—
the trauma you still hide.
Cut him off, you fucking idiot.
The more you senselessly abide
by his rules,
the more you will never be free from the cycle of abuse.
He pays you? Good for him;
I think you must have missed the part
where I said I would stay true
to our friendship
no matter who you turned out to be,
and no matter what you did to me.
And I'm quite sure I understand
the gears that have been turning
behind why you exploded randomly
why you suddenly would ask me for money
why you asked me if I had AIDS, if I was dirty—
and you're not the only one.
Who else has thought I am far too handsome?
Who else seems to keep sending gale force winds in Fuad's direction?
I'm not here to judge,
nor am I here to say, without hard, concrete evidence,
that something, somewhere in your past is extremely fucked up.
But I am here to do what I did for my students, out of love
that will never die,
no matter how many atrocities you have let slide into the light:
as long as I live,
you will one day account for the things you did
to yourself,
so that I can at last
have that better world I briefly glimpsed.
So that at last I might one day know
—about you, and what happened to you, at least—
whether I was wrong
or so terrifyingly, agonisingly right.