dusting for fingerprints

I'm continually confounded by the profound ways trauma molds our identities, shaping our responses to life with a surgeon's cruel precision. Take the Widower, for instance—his issues are crystal claro, painfully evident. But here lies the rub: where precisely does his trauma end, and where does he, as a person, genuinely begin? The distinction blurs, turning him into a complicated mosaic of suffering and self-inflicted wounds.

My fascination isn't with him specifically—no, my intrigue lies in deciphering the roots of such egregious behaviors from someone who’s endured devastating losses. It feels akin to a macabre case study, where grief and unresolved pain manifest into weapons turned outward, inflicting new damage with a sort of reckless entitlement.

It brings to mind the allegory of the two brothers with the alcoholic father: one learns how to drink while perched upon his father’s drunken knee; the other learns never to drink by the same tragic lesson. Trauma, it seems, is never a straight path but rather a labyrinthine maze, guiding some towards self-awareness and others deeper into denial and destruction.

Beware the Widower

Beware the widower, the woe is me, That sorrow-laced story, the “come Google me.” Grief as a cloak to conceal designs, While truth stands trembling on fragile lines.

Hours confined to a work phone’s chain, Affection withheld, replaced by feigned pain. Nights of absence, a father’s role claimed, Yet empathy vanished, the children blamed.

Stealthy illusions of heartbreak contrived, Tender hearts targeted, compassion deprived. A fleeting hush in a tangled dance, Where words weigh empty in longing’s trance.

Reason awakened, no echo remains, A shift in power dissolving stale chains. No thirst for riddles or restless calls, A fortress of self stands behind these walls.