from men to monsters and back again

the boy with two broken fists

shows me the scars, recalls the broken mirrors and the broken family reflected in them

and laughs about the phone call to the cops.

i want to scoop him into my arms and cry

for not being witness to the horror show,

for not being there to clean the blood and pick out jagged edges of glass,

for not being there to wipe his tears and convince him he's not a monster afterwards.

i can still smell the anger that erupted out of him

over a week ago -- and i'm more relieved than horrified that he has more rage in him than regret

because if it was me, i know i would have never fought back.

i'm glad that he came with two broken fists

instead of slit wrists, halfway through rigour mortis in a body bag surrounded by police tape

i'm glad it was him who described the crime scene and not anyone else.

it is not easy watching the monster

who made a monster out of me, also try to make a monster out of the one person i'd kill for

it is not easy watching him struggle to hold on to the good like i did

the difference between me and him though,

is he learned from my mistakes (he told me so himself) and he'll come out of your hell

with maybe more scars than me, but without an apology.

he does not need to apologize

for the mistakes you made out of him, or the mistakes he made because of you, or the fact that survival sometimes looks a lot like the thing he's trying to survive from -- he will know his worth enough to not reduce it to "sorry".

and when he finally leaves you, i promise

i will scoop him into my arms and cry, clean the blood and pick out the jagged edges of glass, wipe his tears,

file his fangs and cut his claws until he is convinced that he's not a monster.

- Shards

Shards is a young female poet whose words you can easily connect with. For more of her work, check out her Instagram account @shaaards