There is sorrow ... far too much to convey ... overwhelming; until only anger and disappointment in myself and my failure to stay iron remain. Leaden moments drag me under ... drowning and gasping for air, for sky, for freedom ... from what I am become.
I remember happiness as though it were some sepia toned photograph that is found folded in a page book, ancient and uncared for enough that the printing papers are cracked and so faded that '... did she EVER smile? did she ever laugh like that? was there a moment when it might have been okay ...' echoes down the hallways of every fucking place I stand within, hidden.
Yes, there are people who seek to assuage; those that have known me long enough to know better than to even make that 'yet another' attempt. I touch them as best I can ... stretching fingers where uncared for, unclean, nails are cracked and split and cuticles are bleeding; the bits of skin wedged between my teeth.
"No wonder you don't have friends ..." said in her acid anger tones as a goodbye kiss; and not by her alone. "... varmint ..." said once as a gun was raised in yet another of a long series of sudden ambushes. WHY do I bother to survive any longer?
I hate this weak aspect side that has become a needy ... longing ... wanting ... exposed and vulnerable creature ... what HAPPENED to my anger and strength and 'fuck off betch' sharpened edges me? I cough and expectorate colorless masses of disgust at what I am become. Leaving messages on phone lines disconnected and account names blocked to me that never actually existed as I hallucinated them for ages ... fuck my drunken hope, fuck the chemically induced love, fuck the smoke of trust; there is only violence and myself to stand and flame.
There was yesterday ... the day of birth for yet another failure in shape and form of beloved. I didn't think of her then, no motion to rise and reach and dig out old photos ... she's been dead for almost a year and six months now; born and celebrated the day before this annual hated day. A torch carried for five years now; the one who made me Loom, the adored deception of Diana in my past. The one who caused my longest love the "varmint" spell to cast.
I need more art on my body, an end point to butterflies and soft fog kindness created from falsified tenderness. I need death and destruction to decorate my parchment skin with the burning coals and ashes that are all of what remains. Scarify, brand, chop my hair; cut fine auguries into my thrust forward forehead where the stone of all these manipulative hearts met my need. This hated day.
© Amanda 2014.02.14
Image: "Hate" by © 2008