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.
