I can still see the rolled in the water. But it still feels like my heart in in my throat. As I sit her on this bench with a pile of cold, wet, stone next me; I think everything.. With these hands as I look down. I grab a stone and bob it in my hand. I stand up and still bobbing it in my hand just as quick I throw it watching it hop across the water. Then I look down. I see him.. I see me.. I hurry and look away.. I am no monster. I am the Monster.
YOU ARE READING
My poetry and short stories
PoesieScars are badges of strength courage they tell the story of what we have encountered. Only survivors wear them
