Mr Mascellani's Musings

Bad Poetry, Beautiful Girl

You wrote bad poetry, beautiful girl, but I could never bring myself to tell you. Not after all the secrets you shared with me, not after that e-mail you sent me, the one in which you told me about the time your older brother raped you in your room when you were 12 and how when you screamed out for help, your father and your uncle came, and they raped you too.


You wrote bad poetry, beautiful girl, but it was never bleak, or sad, or blue. Your poems were always up-beat. You wrote of things such as the summer rain, flowers and the sun. Few knew of the true horrors of your life:The continued molestation, the beatings by your husband.


You wrote bad poetry, beautiful girl, and I don't know why you chose me as a confidant, or as a friend, but I'm glad that you did. I enjoy the summer rain, flowers, and the sun much more, much better for having known you. I wish I could have met you in the flesh, in person, face to face.

You wrote bad poetry, beautiful girl, but then, so do I , and what does it matter? I miss you.