grevola
Standing behind her, I held her hems.
I followed her down the aisle.
I smiled with straight white teeth when she teared up.
When he fumbled the ring.
When they kissed.
But inside myself
I wanted to scream:
I know about the bruises.
Under her skirt.
And up above the buildings, the evening sun beating down on the harsh sky scrapers, I watch the shadows climb up the walls. Inch by inch, filling in all the little gaps of the window sills. Promising something. Inevitable.
Set down the pencil,
it's okay.
It's the end of the work sheet.
The assignment.
The lesson.
...
The year.
You've mastered the subject.
And you don't need me any more.
I'll miss you.
Remember that time when I borrowed your pencil,
and wrote on the back of your math assignment
and drew that one sketch..
Not the penguin, the other one.
Remember how you yelled at me?
And crossed everything out
Too embarrassed to turn it in
with my scribblings on the back?
Well, I want you to come to my gallery opening on Wednesday- if you remember.
I do love a man with a nice set of sideburns. Proper ones- well groomed, filled in, with sharp edges that show attention to detail and skill with a razor. Not that skill with a razor is much of an indicator of character, but it's at lest something to set a young suitor apart from the rest of the rabble.
Unfortunately, my boyfriend has none of these things.
A quick vanish.
Calm smoke, and mirror showing only the far wall.
The sound of ice melting in a half-drunk scotch.
A cigar, burnt out and cold.
The empty room and the book unfinished.
He was sick of the feeling. Hopelessness. The deep and abiding knowledge that, no matter what he did, he was absolutely powerless to save his world.
He wasn't the only one.
And it might be that having super powers made him feel it more sharply than those who were honestly out classed. But maybe not