Eric LaRocca

After all, what exactly is a family, if not a brotherhood and sisterhood afflicted with the same terminal disease?

After all, what exactly is a family, if not a brotherhood and sisterhood afflicted with the same terminal disease?

After all, what exactly is a family, if not a brotherhood and sisterhood afflicted with the same terminal disease?

When I was little, I used to think something wasn’t yours until you bled on it

It feels awkward holding something so precious—something so easy to hurt.

I soon sense other equally repulsive thoughts creeping out from the secret crypts within my mind, their fangs exposed and claws unfurling

I have to do something horrible to prevent something even worse from happening

“When I was with you, I felt like a monster,” I say to her. “And I am a monster.”

Her stare lingers, quizzically studying me as if trying to decipher my every word.

“But I’m going to leave you alone like a nice monster,” I say.

Because no matter how perfect we are when we’re born, in this world we can’t stay clean forever

I wonder if it’s because each thing that loves us leaves behind a small stain