Outlaw Pointy Things

I am a master of a disgusting art. I deal in a sick business. I take a little knife, call it my hand, and mutilate all the smooth bits of skin I have left, call them my eyes.

And when I dig my hand down into my eyes in an attempt to blind them, I can still see her.

She's always smiling, and she is always fresh, and happy, and pure, and lovely, and beautiful, and kind, and all these things at once are too much for my little sick mind to handle, and I explode, spewing my thick once living blood all over myself and staining the ground a brilliant maroon. She's static, caught in my own imagination, a slave to my will, but she's happy to oblige my self loathing. More than happy is she to lend a hand to the slaughter I undertake when the moon is full. She wears a face that I know, and her eyes are familiar, even name is known to me, though the sound is strange.

I held her hand once, when she was alive, not static like she is now. I blushed when she looked at me, long ago when there was light in those eyes. All I see in her bright eyes now is judgment, and sadness. She's not like other girls, not alive and willful as they are, no, no, her skin is still flush, and her eyes still bright, but stuck in a loop, unconsenting as I made her immortal. Like a doll that I can't dress down, she's ready for the game, always eager and prepared for the fun that will soon become sour.

Love is war; they say, welcome to the stalemate. It is odd how one can go against the very laws of nature and be filled with a bitter hatred of life. Petty wounds fester into grievous ailments. I have seen the look of love in a woman's eye, I have felt the sting of pride when she turned a disapproving eye on my mud-pies. All care and tenderness I undertook in their creation, but she kicked them away all the same, they were from my soul and not agreeable to her. The words I bled out from my heart-of-hearts were foreign to her, and fell on her ears like the braying of an ass.

Perhaps I am too grim, determined to despair forevermore. Perhaps I enjoy seeing her stuck in static, a slave to my oppression. Maybe the memories make me fell deep down that I have some worth in me. Maybe the memories make me feel strong again, or bring some light back into my world.

A crushing bitterness is wrapped up in that word; woman. A painful surge of remorse and a deathly stench are summoned by that phrase; in love. For now, for the future I can imagine, I will remain shut up in my little dungeon of torture, slowly hacking away at my eyes, and bleeding tears, refusing to cry.

I am exploring the issue. Thoughts: Pending. Casting bones of metal and stone, refusing to let the mental corrosion take away my thumbs. Mirrors were never my friend, but now they actively stalk me out and hold me down, forcing me to stare in my own eyes. My hands are quickly becoming instruments of subterfuge, allowing myself to cut out chunks of the man I was. I see this thing, a rose, or is it a face? Neither one seem real to me. Justification is such a joke to this mind, pigs don't go to heaven.

I have never really worked my lips around that word: Breast, where the heart sits, alone and perfectly happy to make war. And claw as I might, no effort of mine has been successful to rip hers out of her. She seems very pleased to look down on me in my struggle, she used to breath a sweet breath on me, but now it's chilled with forgetfulness. Her mantra was simple; “Learn. Move on”, a notion that my disease fights against with all its strength. Dragging a body from the depths of a lake named Misery. Exhuming a corpse that should have been cremated.

But this is all a Was, a Has Been time, I am free of this prison. I am free from that disgusting art of self-mutilation. The body has been exhumed, and burned. The bones are gone. God is in the sunrise again.

Because I realized something, as I made my way deep into the dungeon, I am feeding the Black Dog, I am its master, yet I cower before it. I made a choice to chain it up, and starve it. Because I don't like hurting myself, I don't enjoy perverting her memory. I knew that hiding from this wouldn't make it go away, because the hunger was still there. I was addicted to my own blood, so I took a bath in His. White as snow, free to live. I am not starving myself, I have decided to not be hungry.

Because a truth has struck me, even if we take away the knives, we still want to stab. Even if we take away the guns, we still want to force. Even if we outlaw pointy things, we still want to kill. The problem isn't the instruments, but the song we want to perform. If the end is something evil, then the means will always follow suit. If the end is something pure, then the means will always follow suit. But the problem was never the knife, the problem was that we wanted to stab. The problem was never the gun, the problem was the we wanted to force our fellow man to do our will.

As long as we have eyes to see, we'll try to gouge them out. Can we outlaw being alive? Because that is the only sure way to cleanse the world in the image of your Father. Because life cannot live in a vacuum, the kingdom of your Father is without shape and void of life.

She would agree with me, static as she is, but when her chest begins to rise and fall again, air coming and going, I know she'd agree with me. Once there is a soul behind her eyes again, she'll smile back me at, and at last I'll be whole, not because she has come back to me, but because my Father is with me at last. I tell you the story of her and me, not because I am lonely, or crying still, and not because I believe it is unique, a rare mystery that only I experience, I tell it because it is my story, and it is yours, and it is His story. I tell it because we are not alone, I am here with you, walking side by side with my brothers and sisters, following the only One who can comfort. Because we will never be happy, never be free, never be whole, as long as we think we can solve the problem by outlawing pointy things.