I threw away the childish games
The day the first punch was thrown
I haven’t seen them coming since
Perpetually punch drunk
And some might think me naïve
Or blind bordering on stupid
But I’m not
I’m just not an open door
If I let you in, you have a home
I don’t let many see me
More often than you think
Bet you didn’t know
The permanent scars aren’t conceivably beautiful
I can barely stand the reflection
I don’t fight,
I rage inside, where it’s quiet
And I can be withdrawn
Where my mask can come off
With no judgement or fear
It’s safe there, and I can loathe
Myself. Mores the pity
Don’t tell me you love me
Unless you mean it
Those are words I take to heart
I don’t speak them unless it’s right
I still believe in will-o-wisps
And fairy dust,
and monsters under my bed
Magic and Dragons
Faefolk and gargoyles
that squirrels and clowns are evil
But I know one thing….
That while plausibly these all exist
Love does not.
It’s a unicorn
How I came to be here I know not, only that I woke from my slumber not in my dwelling but curled in a nest of poisonous greenery that covered me as a blanket, near a small stream. The air was fragrant with rot and quiet desperation, the delicious scent drifting to me from the broken down town just in the distance. Yowling sounds carry on the wind to my ears, making them want to bleed, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. I would like to end the misery of whatever poor creature was being forced to vocalize its joy.
The stream is a constantly growing tendril of crimson, sparkling in the dying light, and I crouch to capture some in my hand. It tastes of Prey and steam, tingling on my tongue. There is no lifeblood here, but for the cleverly flowing stream, no animals scatter in my wake.
Scythe rest against the closest tired and withered tree, Her blade dull and unhappy in the thick dusty air. She shivers in the heat, Her stalk growing a feathery covering of grime. I drift to Her, a smile of pleasure upon my lips at finding My Beautiful Destroyer so close at hand. She sings softly to me as my hand grasps Her stalk, brushing away the feathery covering She has inherited as a grimy welcome gift.
The shadows are deeper along the ruts in the ground that had been created by wheeled carts, the trees on either side looming over us as we drift in the gloaming, Scythe and I dim in the darker twilight. The yowling has ceased, perhaps another black soul had fed upon its owner’s essence, and is replaced by the tinkling tones of a music box. I find this odd to my mind, and creep up upon the town, my unnatural blues taking in the decrepit and worn buildings.
From the windows, stubby candles flicker and glow, as lovers lighting the way home. I find it distasteful to my eyes and lift my lip in contempt. Humans are strange creatures, I muse as I stalk closer, mine eyes devouring each and every movement. Here and there shadows flick and flitter, the windows reflecting ghastly beauty as eyes follow my progression.
Human women posture and pose in the windows of the tavern, their voices screeching as they call to the men below, exposing their lackluster breasts and legs in an effort to find a warm body to share their diseased beds. The Tainted Rose the poorly painted sign screams in muted tones, that causes my black heart to pound. From inside the yowling has begun once again, with hard tones attempting to soften the horrid warbling coming from the airtube of some wanton strumpet.
On the edge of town, a building seems to glow a sickly green, its luminescence eye watering in the desiccated dust of this town. It is as a beacon in the gloom, a deathly lighthouse, and causes that despicable bubbling sound to explode from my gut. I am most displeased by this, and snarl as Scythe screams in my ear. Male voices, jovial and reeking of solicitous intent sound behind me, close enough for one to stroke my midnight shot ember strands. I whirl about, swinging Scythe low and dragging her upwards to slice the offending hand from the one who dares touch me. He screams and falls, his fellow beasts surrounding him and looking at me with reproach. Scythe drools blood from her beautiful blade, the crimson as rouge on the most lovely bone cover, as she drinks in her first taste.
The beasts gather the fallen and hurry him away from me, looking back over their shoulders as they flee, and I return my gaze curiously once again to the house just beyond. As I draw closer, I see many plants that resemble the toxic greenery in which I returned to consciousness in. The yard of this small stone dwelling is full of lush plants and trees, the scent of the poison flora heavy in my sinuses. I could smell the bitterness of hemlock, the rabid venin of belladonna and the shining and somehow prickly fragrance of poison ivy, twisted around each other in a venomous and deadly concoction.
Within the yard of malicious vegetation dances a most puzzling creature, her hat of brightly colored fabric topped with bells of sickeningly sweet timbre, that bounced and rang with every movement she made. I creep closer, Scythe close at my side, her voice a croon to my ears as I take in the flashy and somehow conflicting patterns that cause my unnatural blues to deny their existence, the metallic heliotrope intertwining with midnight, straight lines with chevrons ghastly in their existence.
I am most confused by this creature, and find that displeasing sound threatening to explode from my chest yet again when she turned her head, a somehow respectful yet evil grin upon her lovely face.
Last week I was surfing the Internet and came across a headline proclaiming autism and circumcision are linked. I couldn’t help myself. I laughed out loud.
In no certain order, I have read the following explanations for autism over the years:
Autism is caused by mercury.
Autism is caused by lead.
Autism begins with poor maternal bonding.
Certain pesticides may trigger autism.
Gluten aggravates autism spectrum disorder.
People with autism should eat more strawberries.
Too much automotive exhaust is a leading cause of autism.
Chemicals found on non-stick cookware may trigger autism.
The one about maternal bonding is sort of painful for me. The truth is, I did have a hard time bonding with infant Jack. The little guy shrieked and whined and cried for a solid year. He started sleeping through the night at six weeks, and stopped at three months.
Perfunctory kisses and loveless touches
Use my body and ignore my mind
Pleasures wrought and brought
Climax rushed and heartless
Once you told me pretty words
Without belittling and making me feel small
Like a last resort, some faceless vessel
I meant something then
Once my body was your playground
Now you fuck me and roll away
Leave me cold and heartsick
I feel like a kept whore
Sometimes in the night
Alone in our bed, beside you
Just wanting to be held as the tears start to flow
I drift to sleep hugging my pillow
To my chest, the only comfort I have
And wish that your fists would lash
Instead the torturous indifference
Because words sting forever
As a child, the image of rescue from some Prince Charming was all I could see. I wanted to be that princess, with my hero at my side. A Champion
As I got older, I realized that I didn’t want a man prettier than me, with infinitely better hair. I still wanted to be rescued, and still looked for my hero.
In my teens, I realised that there is no such thing as a Knight in shining armour. Most of them were idiots in tinfoil. If I wanted a hero, I had to become one. I failed in so many ways
As a young woman, the notion of True Love was shattered, and my romantic’s heart took a beating.
I needed rescuing, desperately needed a hero. Safety. I knew then that my belief in love was dying. Romance was already dead and buried.
Now that I’m older, I am wiser. Harder. My trust in humanity was lost long ago. Romance is a dusty pipe-dream. I now dream in darkness, and shun the light. There are monsters in the light.
I look for a King befitting my Crown. No princes for me.
I still search the horizon for my Hero.
I still believe in love. I believe that a meeting of the eyes is as much a teller of truths as the heart is. I believe that a word unprompted can do as much as a touch can.
I believe that I’m worth a Hero, although I’m pretty sure that romance is a unicorn. A myth.
I believe you find your happy where you can It’s the small things like pretty words. It’s nice to know that there are still romantics out there in our fucked up world
Everyone wants to feel like they matter to someone. Even a little I wonder if I’m just a big old fool for still hanging on to the outdated precept.
And then I smile. Because, at least someone out there still believes in love enough to write those breathless words for someone they adore