My imagination is now limited to what I believe is attainable, and what can be acquired with little effort. Disappointment has left too great a mark on me. Even a mouse would feel claustrophobic in this space. They say that if there is enough repetition coupled with emotion, all thoughts will manifest into a solid reality. Then, I will wait by the water’s edge for the faerie folk. I will ready myself for my husband, born and belonging to the Otherworld. He will take me to a land where I belong.
Here, one will stand. I cannot be the one on my knees.
I fight these demons inside of me, as if they were external villains. I speak of them, as if they could be self-sustaining. Often, I am found swinging at the invisible. The alternative is to accept them for what they are. I have described their true nature before, so why is it that I go back to lending paper monsters a strength they could never have on their own? I look to a misshapen crucifix, purchased outside of a bakery, as if a ceramic Jesus hanging on alloy could hand me a miniature guidebook. But if I stay still, if I pray with fervor, I can almost hear him tell me to shut the fuck up.
Do not ever trample the blooming flower. That isn’t wise, and it isn’t kind, and it isn’t funny.