How could you not know?

Of course you started your father drinking.
You may as well have mixed up
the chemical imbalance it exacerbated
in a high school chemistry lab.

When your mother ran away,
you may as well have handed her the car keys
and a Mapquest printout
showing the way to freedom.

The babysitter who molested your brother?
You probably left some Barry White playing
spiked the Hawaiian Punch
drenched your brother's clothes
and cut the phone wire at the house.

When you look at it,
it's hard to imagine anything could have gone right
with you involved.

You know,
you could have been more open
to her rapid fire emotional abuse.
Every time you were together,
why couldn't you just smile when she tore you down?
Why didn't you find her vapid humor more amusing?

Every time he hit you,
he did so with love
your bruises assurances of affection.
If you weren't such a crybaby
you'd probably still enjoy that touch?

Comprehension crosses your face
like the great Khan marching across the plains.
It's all your fault, then.

You're the one told Chris Brown
what Rihanna said about his momma.
You were the first one who told Tiger,
"Well, it's not like Elin's here now, is she?"
Not sure how your fingerprints stayed off OJ's gloves
or how the Zapruder video missed you on the grassy knoll
but there's heavy suspicions that was your handiwork too.

You're right.
There can be no question.
You are the worst person in the world.

So what does that mean
since we're all willing to forgive you?

"The Villain of The Story"
By Hannibal Tabu

Labels: napowrimo, poetry, writing