Thursday, November 11, 2010

there's hope in the air; there's hope in the water, but no hope for me your last serving daughter.

careful little steps. heart beating like a bird. and if i concentrate ill slow it. but it's the pattern and rhythms of blood rush. of heart swells. inside everything is fast as chaos. faster than gravity. and outside it moves slow like molasses. i am no guru. i cannot reverse it. fathomless depths gape like wounds below. calling my name to come dwell there. forget the sting and move on, i say. onward and upward toward the healing. but every single day you are greeted with the first careful little step. there is no floor… just a tightrope. move slow. teeter upon the edge of being lost. or something. it is a curse handed down to you. a curse that has left you. a curse broken and deleted. but not, really. because it all takes the same cycle. the same wolf in sheep's clothing. and in the next dream, the good parts get longer, the climb is higher, the sweet is sweeter. and the fall will dash you. but you'll never die of it. it's enough to put you through hell, and not enough to kill you. not enough to cripple you. enough internal injuries to make you remember every time you breathe. but every one thinks you should be fine. and so, let's pretend that i am.

there is this kid in my class who passes notes to me. he scrawls them whenever he has a moment. decorates his books with commentaries for me. so each time he opens them to read along or study, i hear what's in it, but i can't help but see what note has been added. he's the first conspiracy theorist i've ever met. he makes me mistrustful of all that i've believed in. he also tells me how he sees me in the most poetic of ways. and if you're expecting shakespeare-like odes of beauty, my friends, you are mistaken. he elaborates upon my ugliness. suggests clothing to hide me better. to hide my shame. he paints the paper bags i walk around in. and makes a mask for my face. "look. you want this to stop hurting? it won't. it's ok. just hide it. hide you. stop talking. stop singing. stop moving. be silent, dear one. in this, you'll do the world the greatest of favors. just let them use you. you're worth nothing but to take care of people. you are rather good at that. you take care of them and help them to feel better with songs. let the men have their way. let them lead you on. you don't think they'd mean it, do you? no self-respecting man would love you. and you comfort the women. you're good at encouraging. so, let go of your dreams. relinquish them to this God you believe in. because you are misled. He wants them because you weren't meant to have them. You take care of other's children. you are a maid in the grand caste system of this world. so work harder and get those silly stories of princes and happy endings out of your head. this is reality. you're shooting for the moon, child." i think he's an idiot. but i believe every word he says.

these friendships are like terminal illnesses. these relationships much the same. everything has an expiration date… you cannot control when. but it will come. they will leave you in the end. you're still in the room, but the door has slammed. only difference is, i don't ask you to stay anymore. i won't beg you not to go. do us a favor, and stop wasting my time that i'll have to pay back to keep us on some sort of life support.

my body slides between the sheets each night and longs for some sort of meaning and freedom. i bite my mouth in my sleep from frustration. crying and fighting… fighting myself. good thing i'm imaginative. i'll create new reasons to exist here. and teach myself to lie so that when you ask how i'm doing… i 'll say fine in a believable sort of way. stoic little maid that won't give up. and bury it all in songs.

and someday, it just might feel ok. good thing some sort of warrior resides in the bones of this body.

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