Coward’s Way Out


  I’ve come here every week since it happened. Stood in this exact patch of worn-down turf for three years, so worn down its all but gone, like the ground is dead. I arrive at eleven at night on Sunday every week, turn my cellphone off and just wait. What I’m waiting for never comes.

  The graveyard is always quiet at this time. The crickets are loud and the owl seems to enjoy the audience but apart from the gentle ruckus of nature it’s silent.

  Here Lies James Phillips

  If there was ever a scenario where I would forgive him – where I could forgive him – surely this is it. Surely with nothing but the evenings warm breeze and the gentle hoots from the branches above and the cities glow lining the horizon and the serenity surrounding the old building before me where only a few hours ago the words of the lord where being spoken about the power of such a feeling as forgiveness – a sermon I was sitting in on, like every week, despite my absence of faith, in the hopes that it would inspire the emotion to grace me. But no. I stand here in front of his grave –

  Caring Husband

  – and try desperately to let what he did wash over me for the first time since it happened, try and be okay with his choice. But I can’t. His ticket got punched too early and he was the one to punch it and there’s no way I can be okay with that.

  Loving Father

  Fuck you dad.

  See you next week.


~ by Joseph Blame on April 10, 2011.

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