Dual sided coin. One side is like liquid mercury, boiling in all the witches' chaos that I did not create, but I hold to. Carry it to the ends of the earth, with glaring eyes, a whore's heart and fists always ready to defend a notion that I don't share verbally very well. Defensive, wanting and selfish. My need to possess does not know where to cease.
Then the other side. Meek, sensitive like sugary water which bathes everything in perfect happiness, giving of myself until there is nothing left of the idea of me, crying torrents at the breath of certain piano notes which trickle into my bathtub soul, drowning us all in utter devotion. "You give me everything, when you look at me like that. I love the way you gaze at me when I fuck you", said JR before he came on top of me.
It's difficult to keep that up; it was difficult being such a tender set of limbs when a child, that I couldn't understand why anyone would be mean to me, or say they didn't want to be my friend, or boss me around. I did whatever they said, sometimes to a humiliating default, which then led to anger, and when those catholic girls made fun of me endlessly for a year's time, I would cry, scratch at their backs and tear at them, and even though I left marks, theirs stung deeper. Home was the only safe place.
Later on, when those darkened shadows crept into my soul, those songs, and flickering images, and darkness in people's souls, the romantic, sensual kind, I felt stronger. People they ain't no good. But I knew the truth in them, I could see the flash caught in a single second between living their own personal lie and blankly getting on with their day. I could not. I can not. Felt like being the storyteller whose creation was being played out before her eyes. I wanted to seduce, to save and strike down with aplomb at each new turn in the cog, I knew the forest but I couldn't be bothered to hang about in the immediate content of the trees, or their leaves. I loved their details, but I saw it all with a fieriness that was born out of the ash of rejection, of cruelty, of isolation and eventually, the loss of my creator. There is no other way to say it.
I'd thought I'd come past a long and crumbling plain, to the next level, where I can give and love and be, in the one place at one time. But the torrential rains returned, I'm left alone with my leg caught in the deepening crack leading to one of the lonely and angry hells below, and I know it's not mine. But it was. I lost my closest friend who happened to be my father (even though I knew we were soldiers together in another life, or sister and brother at familial most), There is no remedy for it. I'm angry. And every new face and opportunity and adventure presented to me is tainted, because I liked myself a whole lot more when he was around. And up jumps the devil sometimes, and me his legion's prey.
Because when I Did look into JR's eyes, that way, when he fucked me, the way he used to, I gave all but a remedial leftover morsel of myself, and even then it wasn't enough. He told me I was too beautiful, and that I would have left him if the other one came back. I felt dejected and powerful at the same time. We shouldn't be living as we do. Day in and day out this way. It's not natural. And it's only so long that a mind so chaotic as mine, a heart so fearless and vulnerable and energy so like a sun shining in a firestorm until its blinded to everything but what she feels is right, can take living a life that was not meant for me.
It often breaks at the magic beauty of her fragile mind. The past is always there, ready to leap at me, a cacophony of bitches who hold me down, tear at my clothes and berate me until I need to fight back, fight them, fight something. Apparently, when I look with my full heart, it kills the beholder inside, because they weren't meant to look back. Too much was revealed and the raindrops blast at the forest for its stupidly letting more onlookers in, to see the beautiful freak that the weeds hold down, in the mire and the circumstance. She can pen stunning words but she cannot fight her way out of the gilded cage. The song becomes a whisper, the drugs kick in and she can only burrow herself in a deep, dark hole. Alone, and wanting.
I know there will be a time, when she can get out. I thought it nearly upon her, but it seems she has more lessons to learn. She stepped on the bloody head of the mickey mouse she used to shine up every single morning at breakfast, and wished it away. They say as the last, more horrific remnants of mud are descending out of you, out of your ears, mouth, hands and feet, that this will hurt the most. Releasing the demons was never easy game, but one day -- one day, they will all be gone, made into the lithe blue mouths of sparrows singing the most pure of songs.
There might not be anything of her left when that day comes. Still she continues to hold the liquid that melts her heart daily - enough to love completely, save the world entire from the rigidity and wasteland that it created. She'll keep on the dirt road, never stirring too far, always remembering to laugh, and not be afraid to fail yet again, and maybe she'll be greeted at the end of the trail, none too soon, by a light that absorbs this darkness, by a gaze that crosses her over for good. Until then, her loss remains, quietly at her side, her arms abide and the air that catches her in the mist of her own wit and stupidity, cradles with every passing step forward.
~ M. Lucia
Then the other side. Meek, sensitive like sugary water which bathes everything in perfect happiness, giving of myself until there is nothing left of the idea of me, crying torrents at the breath of certain piano notes which trickle into my bathtub soul, drowning us all in utter devotion. "You give me everything, when you look at me like that. I love the way you gaze at me when I fuck you", said JR before he came on top of me.
It's difficult to keep that up; it was difficult being such a tender set of limbs when a child, that I couldn't understand why anyone would be mean to me, or say they didn't want to be my friend, or boss me around. I did whatever they said, sometimes to a humiliating default, which then led to anger, and when those catholic girls made fun of me endlessly for a year's time, I would cry, scratch at their backs and tear at them, and even though I left marks, theirs stung deeper. Home was the only safe place.
Later on, when those darkened shadows crept into my soul, those songs, and flickering images, and darkness in people's souls, the romantic, sensual kind, I felt stronger. People they ain't no good. But I knew the truth in them, I could see the flash caught in a single second between living their own personal lie and blankly getting on with their day. I could not. I can not. Felt like being the storyteller whose creation was being played out before her eyes. I wanted to seduce, to save and strike down with aplomb at each new turn in the cog, I knew the forest but I couldn't be bothered to hang about in the immediate content of the trees, or their leaves. I loved their details, but I saw it all with a fieriness that was born out of the ash of rejection, of cruelty, of isolation and eventually, the loss of my creator. There is no other way to say it.
I'd thought I'd come past a long and crumbling plain, to the next level, where I can give and love and be, in the one place at one time. But the torrential rains returned, I'm left alone with my leg caught in the deepening crack leading to one of the lonely and angry hells below, and I know it's not mine. But it was. I lost my closest friend who happened to be my father (even though I knew we were soldiers together in another life, or sister and brother at familial most), There is no remedy for it. I'm angry. And every new face and opportunity and adventure presented to me is tainted, because I liked myself a whole lot more when he was around. And up jumps the devil sometimes, and me his legion's prey.
Because when I Did look into JR's eyes, that way, when he fucked me, the way he used to, I gave all but a remedial leftover morsel of myself, and even then it wasn't enough. He told me I was too beautiful, and that I would have left him if the other one came back. I felt dejected and powerful at the same time. We shouldn't be living as we do. Day in and day out this way. It's not natural. And it's only so long that a mind so chaotic as mine, a heart so fearless and vulnerable and energy so like a sun shining in a firestorm until its blinded to everything but what she feels is right, can take living a life that was not meant for me.
It often breaks at the magic beauty of her fragile mind. The past is always there, ready to leap at me, a cacophony of bitches who hold me down, tear at my clothes and berate me until I need to fight back, fight them, fight something. Apparently, when I look with my full heart, it kills the beholder inside, because they weren't meant to look back. Too much was revealed and the raindrops blast at the forest for its stupidly letting more onlookers in, to see the beautiful freak that the weeds hold down, in the mire and the circumstance. She can pen stunning words but she cannot fight her way out of the gilded cage. The song becomes a whisper, the drugs kick in and she can only burrow herself in a deep, dark hole. Alone, and wanting.
I know there will be a time, when she can get out. I thought it nearly upon her, but it seems she has more lessons to learn. She stepped on the bloody head of the mickey mouse she used to shine up every single morning at breakfast, and wished it away. They say as the last, more horrific remnants of mud are descending out of you, out of your ears, mouth, hands and feet, that this will hurt the most. Releasing the demons was never easy game, but one day -- one day, they will all be gone, made into the lithe blue mouths of sparrows singing the most pure of songs.
There might not be anything of her left when that day comes. Still she continues to hold the liquid that melts her heart daily - enough to love completely, save the world entire from the rigidity and wasteland that it created. She'll keep on the dirt road, never stirring too far, always remembering to laugh, and not be afraid to fail yet again, and maybe she'll be greeted at the end of the trail, none too soon, by a light that absorbs this darkness, by a gaze that crosses her over for good. Until then, her loss remains, quietly at her side, her arms abide and the air that catches her in the mist of her own wit and stupidity, cradles with every passing step forward.
~ M. Lucia
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