the idiot

so they wouldn't talk about it
         but they made myths,

and you cried
       nurturing a child
half-man half-beast,

and you saw to it that the signs
       arranged themselves so as to explain
unforeseen behavioural betrayals.


so the corners of the mind
         were cobweb-cluttered
and to navigate them meant the lifeless
                  smirk of a spider,

in short, it was different
and you were terrified.

and there was no fixed exchange rate
   for the pain emitted into the duosphere
       from your frame atremble,

what if the mark on its forehead meant
you'd been
     the seed of corruption's bearer.


so when the time came
   for the fledgling to resurge
                  broad-shouldered,
you had hope
       that the curse had been a veil
    noiselessly cast off.

"nothing sticks to the surface of your heart," you said
and both your hopes
         and worst assumptions ended up correct,
teflon overgrowth to offset
       a shame-forged core.


well, child, let it all go -
                         the weight
lighter than a feather
                 when spread
on the collective backs
             of cardboard bystanders
and the fear rummaging the trashcans
     of their brains,
branding their offspring with myths and names.