familycide

my sister, the only one of six, not sisters but siblings, my sister, the bottom sibling, has scars on her arms, the kind you’re supposed to hide, or at least you used to have to did, they are suicide scars, more properly referred to as unsuccessful suicide scars, or maybe they are a sign of success since she’s still here, somewhere, i think she once blamed them on our father, in a letter she wrote, to me, that I didn’t save, I don’t save things, the scars weren’t from our father, they were inspired by him, I get that, but they’re not something we talk about, we don’t talk about anything, we don’t talk, that’s mostly on me, not my fault, just a choice I made, I make

my brother, doug is how I call him, has scars all over his body, tattoos are a kind of scar, not a kind of, literally scars, even, especially, on his throat, (we all have tattoos, except Prince Valiant, which, who, I’ll get to later, but not on the throat), I’m afraid to write this, afraid he might read it, someday, however unlikely, and feel bad, I have no intention of making him feel bad, had no intention, he might have already suicided, as far as I know, but I don’t think so, I think I would have heard, but he seems to have taken it the hardest, well, no, that’s not fair, the actual dead brother almost certainly took it the hardest, of the living, doug has had the most difficulties, the most obvious difficulties, because you can’t compare, which we inevitably do, but you can’t, but you do, I do

this is my space, I’m saving it for later

Prince Valiant was the white sheep of the family, is the white sheep, is not actually a sheep, at all, more like a wolf, a big bad wolf, so to speak, not actually that big or bad but the worst kind, the prevalent kind, the kind who takes pleasure in the damage he causes, who flaunts it, who paints a portrait of it and hangs it so it’s the first thing you see when you walk into his house, life size portrait, predator portrait, trophy portrait, is the least likely to suicide, is the most likely to be already dead, inside, to me, I’m sorry, not sorry, I just am

frnkie was the first to display a physical scar, a tiny tattoo of a flower bunch on his forearm, is the one that actually did it, suicided, successfully, not successfully because he’s dead, successfully because he blamed himself, it makes sense the one to blame is the one that has to die but he also killed his, our, mother, at the same time, not literally killed, killed inside, she was always dead but with a chance of revival, he took that away from her, suicided in a brilliant way, and if I could get the notes from my sister, who won’t give them up, hoards them, hides them, I would prove it, by letting you see them, the notes bring you into the room, make you a witness, a brilliant literary technique, one that I’d like to show you, to recreate, to copy, to emulate, to illustrate, I would

max, the one least likely to suicide, if he decided to do it it, his method would be admired, framed, displayed, it would make frnkie’s brilliant method look crude, sinister compared to max’s creative design and application, which would be both analog and digital, software and hardware, literary and mechanical, it would incorporate found objects, searched for objects, objects salvaged from a post-WWI, or is it WWII, junkyard, it would have tubes and it would have led, it would be written about, written about by him, written about by his fan club, it would be written

About the author

Eric

Eric Jennings is a poet, an invocateur, an accidental yogi and he dabbles in patamysticism which is the spiritual branch of pataphysics.

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Eric Jennings

My name is Eric Jennings and this is one of my poetry and writing blogs. I am a survivor of childhood sexual abuse and most of the work on this site is borne from those experiences.

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