“Before the feeble dawn of gaslight and tea…” 
Patrick Hamilton

I told you I was sorry,

I promised to be better,

but the words dissolved like the sugar dust on a hot funnel cake,

and I meant them for as long.

You all think I’m a monster, a bastard, a fiend…

and I can’t argue.

My heart seems quite fine without beating,

and I can carry the leadweight sitting lumpishly in my chest,

like a huge and stupid bird that won’t learn to fly,

quite easily.

You are waiting for me to buckle I know,

waiting for a tear to well and my throat to crack,

and an abject shaky apology to spill out

that you can replay to all your friends and family…

but it won’t happen.

Call me monster,

call me inhuman,

call me fiend.

I don’t deny it.

I struggled too long to hang the correct feelings on my face,

nailing them there with good intentions,

but it didn’t feel right and I could never deliver my lines without snickering

So instead I fed them to you and you lapped them up like a kitten at a cream bowl

and later screamed about gaslighting,

and your precious psyche,

and you know,

I don’t care.

I don’t care…

I never did really.

I created myself in my own image

and I am all the company I need.




I shuffle the cards and win all the hands and you shrug and say well, I took a chance

never realizing that my deck is all jokers,

and the coat of many colors you all so admire as I stride down the street

is stitched together from favors I have stolen.

Once procured they fade and like a crow I search again for the bright and glittering,

for trophies and conquests

loving the hunt and its adrenaline spike even if the end is already written;

the soft and tender throat turned up,

your drummer heart marking time 

while mine cools even more….

Why buy what you can command?

Why take what will be pressed upon you?

Why pay when you can strut that coin across your knuckles for a cheering crowd?



as if human was a commodity bought and sold on a street corner,

a badge,

an app.

I proclaim my heartlessness,

I revel in my self indulgence,

there is no mask upon this face.

And still you come,

with big pansy eyes,

and a coy, smiling certainty that you,

you and you alone,

can be the whetstone I am smoothed upon.

What fools these mortals be Puck proclaimed,

as do I,

for look how close to the bone I have cut 

and still never bled.

And I sat idly by and watched as all the lights I set were taken by the winds

and blown into wildfire. 



Monster monster…


But then…

why are you still here?


About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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6 Responses to Gaslighter

  1. Fantastic and a bit darker than your other great writings! The ending says it all. 😀 May I share this masterpiece on my blog, SlasherMonster. please? I’ll definitely link it back to yours if you allow me?

  2. Hello! I’m letting you know that your lovely poem will be posted on SlasherMonster on August 19th at approximately 3:00 pm (PST). Thank you!


  3. S. Sekar says:

    That ending! I felt like you were talking right to me. The technicolour coat was a novel image for me as well.

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