Warm Blood Rush

That little kid wronged him for the last time. Took away his Father and ran away like a coward. “Why don’t you just own up to what you did? Instead of running away like a little yellow-belly? Just afraid of being hit, god damn him…” A little blood on someone’s hands never hurt no one. “Dear God, what have you done?” Those words ring loud in the back of your head. That bottle lies in a thick, blood red. “I ain’t no forgiver, forgetter.” Our mother waits in vain for a God that never loved us. As much as she prayed, he never showed up. “Dear God, where have you gone?” Your brother is gone in the blink of an eye. That January night, our father lays cold. “Where are you going to go? You’re only seventeen years old. I ain’t no forgiver, forgetter.” Those cold steel tracks beneath your feet, those same rail ties where you dodged those trains. When we were just two kids, it still feels the same; that warm blood rush when the train comes. “I ain’t no forgiver, forgetter. I will find you, and put that vice to your head. Again, and again, and again.”