Forgiveness

Mary grinds her knuckles into the concrete so when Frank comes back, He’ll know what’s coming to him. When Dad died, Joe took every last picture of him and pasted it on his bathroom mirror that way when he see’s himself every morning, he’ll know what his father had to go through. We all know what forgiveness tastes like. It tastes like the sour end of a bible verse, a multitude of strains, and a dwindling of musicality all rolled up into a silent stab to the chest. I’ve grown too accustomed to that taste. It feels like a thousand broken lies every time I grap a morsel of it, even when I don’t want it, it comes back like a lost puppy, rubbing it’s nose against my leg and wanting to many belly rubs.  Even if I could get rid of this feeling, every ounce of me would want another pint. Even if Mary grinds her knuckles into the pavement, Frank would come back with a crowbar. Even if Joe pastes pictures of his dad on his bathroom mirror, his father still won’t forgive him.