I'm gonna start posting some too.

THE OCTOPUS, by Mauro Iasi

Oh God, it's an octopus.

There's all these tentacles in my living room now.

There's nothing more annoying than these sticky tentacles that just won't let you go.

It's like this piece of what could've been is flying out my window just now and it makes me wonder,

"Didn't I get through this already?"

I swore I'd be different.

Dad married Mom before the Church and the Law.

They swore they'd be happy together.

They lied, but God and our elected officials didn't seem to care.

Not me, though.

I avoided the altar, spat at our bureaucrats' old yellow papers.

Not me.

I fell for a couple of tender eyes, for a small mouth that guarded sweet words and warm kisses.

We slept together,

we moved in together,

together we ate,

we went out,

we lived,

we loved.

In came days,

cups of coffee,

meals,

toothbrushes,

routine,

smells,

weekends,

misconceptions,

facts,

kids.

Then came the failed act,

the miscommunication,

the things we said,

the betrayal,

the things we said that felt like betrayal,

the open wounds.

My kids look at me like they're saying,

"Dad married Mom, but he didn't swear anything to anyone.

Not to God, not to the government.

He didn't register his petty-bourgeois marriage, so now he thinks his brand of dissatisfaction is unique and special."

So now there's this octopus in my living room, clingy and disgusting like any other.

His gigantic, seemingly infinite tentacles grow more and more with every day that goes by.

And that had to have happened to me, a person who particularly despises octopuses.

"How in the world did this thing get here?

How did it get so big?"

So I wonder,

as I calmly feed the octopus

like I do every day.