Since the hellhound was taken away from me, I have come to understand the necessity and value of dependence. I listened to a man speak of an oxcart. He said it is easier to push one, than it is to think about it. I agreed, without fully grasping what he meant then, or now. What I did comprehend, was enough for me to feel satisfied with his teachings. Then, I thought about getting an oxcart, but I wouldn’t know where to buy one.
I will always need something, even when I have an abundance of what I demand. This is how I came into the world. A slight bruise on the brain, caused by mother’s sharp ribs. I long for it all. I guard what I have, and yearn for what I do not. There is a part of me forever aching at the hands of melancholia, debilitated by calling out to what will not respond.
I no longer hide behind ten glasses of wine. My skirts have all been lengthened. I do not believe the answers are found in the words of a man. My mother’s eyes are no longer a glowing red. My father’s power was taken by the thunderstorm. I can see how far I’ve come, just as I see how far I need to go.
If you are to stay with a piece of everyone you have ever known, then I suggest it be their hands. Good pilgrims have soft palms, and their prayers are always granted. Who needs a rabbit’s foot, when we are all born barber-surgeons?
When a really terrible song is played on the radio, and the reaction is one of unmeasured anger, I think about how much blame should be placed on a diseased mind, and how maybe it is just time to admit that I am an entitled brat of a child. I walk onward with my nose in the air, barely supported by my cruelty-free fed, crooked legs. Though it appears life rattles through my bones, the hollow tells me a different story. I believe what I want. I believe what is easiest to comprehend. I believe what allows me to opt for the path that takes the least amount of effort.
All my dreams are now of the house I grew up in. Wretched, haunted, cold shell. All of my thoughts are now of my father, who is always ill. And I care in all the ways he was never able.
My sexuality is well-covered. At times, I aim to be the least desired woman who ever lived. I have not fully forgiven my body for developing against my will. I punish myself for any sexual desire I feel, no matter how weak it is. Each muscle holds a past pain, mapping it straight to a heart that cannot beat it out. It is a psychic illustration of where I have been, and what it has made of me. Pages chronicle a confusion which has left me perpetually mentally jarred.
A treasure hunter, I am out for Solomon’s riches. I want what that woman has, feel entitled to what made that man smile. Give me a life in large, glowing like a harvest moon. I will give shelter to every wolverine in my lungs. Rinse off the shame, and make it as if it never existed. No more will I shorten my name. I will not mutilate what I have earned. Let the world know me as I am.
A perversion, a depravity of the nature my father committed does not vanish into thin air. It has remained unchanged for too long. Somehow, I must find a way to alter its form.
My father shows me affection on occasion, when I allow it. A thing that is rare, but not precious. He praises a beauty I will never own. Of course, I question whether it is sincerity, or perversion that inspires any compliment coming from him. Another possibility being pity.
My struggles with body dysmorphic disorder are mostly private, but there are times in which the frustrations they cause become noticeable. I have said all I can about my self-loathing. There is nothing new to add, only that it continues to grow. I reject accepting my appearance, never wanting to embrace something so flawed. Even in a dark room, the ugliness still exists.
Father says, “ You are so beautiful; how could you ever hate yourself?”
There is not enough trust to take his words into consideration. What little there is, only makes me resent those words more. They are lies, I am not stupid enough to accept. I cry out the anger until it sleeps, but never fully rests.
I feel the dissatisfaction inside every cell. I call for its silence. It cannot be better, so long as the sore spots continue to drown out my own voice. If only I could see what exists beyond the chaos. If only I could hear what is being said underneath the layers of noise.
If it seems that I lack sincerity when speaking of love, it is only because I no longer know where to place it. It is above a letter, or it crosses and completes one. It is underneath each sentence, blanketed by nonsensical expressions. It holds two swords, aiming for a major artery.
It does not take much time, before everything begins to blur at the edges. Moments that brought happiness, lose their shape, and quickly blend with yesterday’s laments. There are people that produce an overwhelming sense of love within us, and as immediately as it comes, it goes. What is chrysanthemums and maudlin poetry during the storm, morphs into time wasted on a man with a wrecked mind. The letters mother wrote to father, when distance separated them, and the longing for an embrace turned into a desperate terror, did nothing for her. What was given in return was not emotion, but fists and bullets. Oh, father. Oh, mother. Your blood is my blood, my bones are your bones. I keep your story, but I can no longer live it. I have all the things, ugly as they are, to write my own.
The hours are once counted in childlike anticipation. When the leaves change color, attention to numbers is given to pills. Look at the rope, is it strong enough to hold your weight? Is it possible to undo the understanding that drove away those that swore to remain by your side? And now, it is about everyone else. Contemplating foreign misery, recognizing we are all vagabonds with dirty faces, but I have not yet reached those depths. I see though, I see the similarities. Look at our fucked, little heads. We have the tremors, so we cannot draw straight lines.