Thursday, February 2, 2012

Every woman, sometimes.

She twists her being into what is desired. She dies inside, just a touch of insanity, drips of life fall away. I just feel... nothing. She screams into the dampness of the echoing night. She feels mocked.. justice laughs at her every move. Listening to everything and everyone, she can not save the world with her in it. It's got to be one or the other, she lays to be raped in every orifice. Sedates into a coma like life, trying to blot out all the hands pulling her down, down into the place where it all falls apart. The voices crying and pleading to be heard have driven her half mad over the long years, trying to be the heart of all with none, the hand for those who turn away. Done, can not, will not, any longer. Tired of being hurt, tired of being reminded how she falls short. When does it stop? When does someone save her from herself? The only respite she has is in the notes of the lovesong of death. She could have had it all, she still can. She just has to stand up, stand up against those who wish her to lie still. It will take a fight, she knows. It will take everything right now, and she knows. But does she feel that desire? To give it ALL? Will she move? Will she pull herself up? Will she walk from the the man who hurt her? Will she look into the eyes of herself, the innocence that still lives and decide that it is enough to live on, to greet the world? Will she look at the life she has and decide it's not enough? Will she go on and chase her dreams, the horrificness of actually living her life, getting what she desperately desires? Do the obsessions still hurt her? Yes. Someday will she let them go? Will she continue to bow to the one who holds her reins? Will she realize she broke a heart when she walked from the only truth she had? Or will she continue her weary way, being every woman sometime? Sometimes wife, sometimes mother, sometimes girlfriend, sometimes saint, sometimes... most times whore? She doesn't whore her flesh, she whores her soul, selling short of the glory she could be.

She stops twisting, she stands up, she begins to show her truth, her light. She begins to see that she CAN be whole. She IS whole. She doesn't need anyone or thing to complete her. She can see now, the sun hurting her eyes, but she blinks and pushes on. She knows she will be pulled back down again, but she will try to get as far as she can with out tripping back into the whole of dispair again.

Do you read yourself in these words? Can you be her? Can you push on? Can you ignore your minute imperfections to show your true beauty? I can acknowledge me, I can see myself whole... fractured in small places, but whole. I love those who are there with a fierceness that abhor couldn't rival. I have those things that create me, those who's love has filled me and made me grow. I have looked into the eyes of myself as an innocent, and he said "Mommy, I love you." And I knew he was worth hell and back. I have lain in the arms of my beloved and felt Heaven and Earth shift to throw hell into oblivion. They are the reason I push on, running away from that yawning whole that seems to slip under my feet from time to time. I know now that I can not save the world with me in it, it has to be one or the other. And I am more important. I fight my demonds.. why shouldn't everyone else fight thier own??