I am fighting a war I know I cannot win. In this war, everyone joins in, apart from myself. I alone, being the artist and curator to a unique niche construction, let the clouds rain havoc and plaguing the person that I purpose to become. Each telling action a symbol curved onto soapstone, staying there as a forever memory, building up moss, and mushrooming mal-tendencies that flow the wrong direction, up my gut.
Dear mother who gave life to me,
Heal me from this never-ending loop of deception that tangle and screw up the wrong plaques onto my heart. Loops that I draw up in my sleep- doing so very meticulous and awfully thoughtlessly to poison those who open their doors to me, with humble and honest intentions…
And they said, “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs neither cast ye your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you.” But you chose blind hope, and it came back to sting you in your sweet sleep.
I rendered to you our beginnings, and dealt out cards of temporal considerations that occupy and consume the mind. Consider again those first moments- the very brief glances, unbeknownst to the miser that comes to those who try to wiggle their feet out of comfort and resolve to become other people, in order to give this otherness to others. They might have been feigned smirks angled to the most pressing immediate emotions- that dwell intensely at where fissures on your wall are most delicate. How could I use these cracks against you? You ask while adorning a naïve blush. I pressed hard on the yet unhealed scar and pull out the vital strings because pain is a pleasure in itself.
The mice have begun to lick the already spilled blood, irking at the revolting taste of trust once broken, at the hope blown away, at peace torn asunder, at love turned sour. The heavens cry and groan, for a heart pushed away and that is beginning to turn cold as ice to future possibilities. No fallibility can be forgiven to an aged soul, a hundred and possibly more years old, reincarnated in the present me that plays a toddler for just one day, because they missed it suddenly.
Where did you say we’d head over to get some empanadas? Because you can finally go have some now that you have permission to slit my throat and pour yourself some cranberry juice. It’s hella great but beware, it’s known to have an acquired taste.