February 16th, Year 21

I say things are over, when they have only just begun. A relationship, a habit, a feud. I retire only by the force of a violent defeat, or a body collapsing. It is not over. Nothing is, until the starting line has been replaced by the horizon. I fight to come out on top. But, isn’t it lonely up here? Doesn’t the air thin at such heights? This is the price to pay for ferocious pride, bringing in nothing but loathing from all it touches. It is easy to forget to love, and to comfort, and to nurture. These things are of women, made by women, taught to men. I am neither man, nor woman. I am a creature.

I want patricide, much like a want a nice dress. And just like that nice dress, I can’t afford it. Oh, what lust my father felt. Oh, what destruction it caused to have it unchecked. He has had my blood from first blood, and now I want his. I need it for strength, for I am drained. My color has left, and I have become a haunting. People see me, and they think they have conjured up something from the beyond. They reach, and they pull, and they run.
I am marked, tattooed, and claimed by a howling past. And it shakes me. And it destroys my foundation.

I sleep with a knife under my pillow. Sweet harmonious lullaby, embracing arms providing a pressure that has a mother’s scent. I know this peace, this temporary comfort. It is safe to surrender to this.

The closer my father is to me, the further I am from sanity, from myself.

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February 16th, Year 21

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