It Hurts.

me n mama 2017

“Watching your mother tortuously and slowly sink into the grips of death is equal to that of existing on a daily basis without being able to make anything at all better for someone who has always found a way to make things better for me.”

Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

Master List.

You were smart in that you always kept up with my movements one sanctuary at a time; marking each hideout I’d been to off on a master list of sanctuaries for the lost and forsaken. You later told me that you stayed so close on my heels by looking for pancaked spider corpses on the walls of the places you searched; I don’t know if I would’ve thought to do that. You knew me better than I knew myself, at all times.

You found me on a Thursday morning before the sun came up; you didn’t take any chances, and you treated me like you would treat any other escapee who pissed you off and took you on a wild goose chase, wasting your time. When I regained consciousness, I was already back in your display case, all squeaky clean and dressed in a starch-stiffened outfit with a smile painted over my mouth in bright red ink. And… the game started over from the beginning for the millionth time.

Dear Dead Man.

I must confess,
this note’s addressed,
to you, most evil man,
my own attempted murderer
my, once, beloved husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
the way that you continue to,
assert your unearned place
haunting me via Déjà vu,
black and blued right onto
your own daughter’s face,
I feel obliged to tell you ,
since you don’t have to see,
her eyes like a raccoon’s;
as her dead former “Father”,
free of the burden or bother ,
of any knowledge or attachment to,
what she’s managed to survive through,
yes, you still fucking linger,
a horrid and grotesque harbinger,
well-hidden,
unbidden…
somehow, forgiven through,
a darkly executed ruse,
she’s grown up somehow,
to be just like you,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat on that trouble-free brow,
you must take this lying down;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through,
it’s only fitting,
I wish you were living,
can you believe that I’d say so?
alive just long enough,
to walk in big and tough,
you always liked to think,
there’s nothing that can make,
those lying eyes of yours blink
but if you had to see,
if your eyes had to perceive,
such ruin and atrocity,
the fulfillment of your prophecy
as our own full-grown legacy,
glowing in your luminosity,
broken and battered,
just like you battered me…
the sight would make you blink.

Memaphor.

 

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?”

I shouted into the pitched darkness, somehow expectant of an answer from its emptied core. The lack of response was killing me; I had been having this one-sided yelling match for the entire night long, to no avail. The low rumbling of thunder began then, and my heart-rate quickened at the sound of its tumbling crashes getting louder – the ground beneath me rumbling ever-so-slightly from its force.
It’s then that my thoughts begin to pirate my mind in rapid succession:
Systematically, I think about the last time that this happened, about the brain-blindingly loud thunder and the chaotically destructive lightning; about the unworldly things that my body was forced to endure during the last storm like this one; I think about the endless possibilities of damages that the impending storm might bring with its wrath; I think about death…I wish for death, a quicker one than the one I am currently playing out.
My mind regains its control over the rest of me just then; and I sit up and wipe my face to regain some composure. I am jolted awake with realization. I scream again with the dwindling wind left in my stinging lungs, affecting a strip of sandpaper ripping itself upwards from my belly’s darkest depths.

“I don’t need to stay here!”

I become infused by adrenaline throughout my bloodstream and serotonin pumping through my glands as I holler the defiant statement into the blackness beyond me – surrounding me – enveloping me;

“I don’t have to do this again…I won’t let you do this anymore!”

I spring to my broken feet in spite of the searing pain shooting up each ankle through my shin bones, lower jaw jutting out in sheer bullheadedness; I have chosen. I am so high off of my own rebellion that I fail to notice the momentum growing in the rumbling and cracking of thunderous bolts around me in the darkened space. At that instant, I can feel the warfare in my esophagus, its bile-like foam rising in my tightened throat; its taste instantly sets off an alarm in my brain and my mind gets weakened by the surprise – I fall.
The cracks of forceful, thunderous power bite at my face and body like wet sheets twisted into vines to whip me to a miserable death. The bellowing rolls of strength and control wash over the entirety of the scene with noise so deafening, that I am no longer able to tell up from down – dark from light; the pain brought about through these forces is felt through and through…standing every nerve on its end, leaving a pain-infused retinal image singed into the insides of my eyelids. I do not want to open my eyes ever again after that point, as I know that HE has returned to hurt me. I wait like a wounded hunter’s prize in the silent darkness, straining to hear it. It’s a voice that is so terrifying to my betrayed, blood-filled ears, that its dripping teeth are nearly tangible to me through the void around me, it says:

“Do you not by now realize, fragile one, that you hold no power here?”

My heart sinks lowly at the sound of HIS voice; its affected terror on me perseveres blindly past my strongest points. I crumble, too weakened by shame and defeat to cry, even. A huge hand, large enough to scoop up my entire body, picks me up into its bloodied palm and begins to squeeze me so tightly that I watch my own eyeballs turn red from the inside.

simple_beauty_by_velvetredbullet-d3cqn4d

Grandeur.

I have been listening
and hearing you
your every cent or two
every jerking move
and yet you prove
to somehow be
totally and completely
shocked to find
blackened faces
fill up the spaces
between the lines
Hello, big guy
I will be fair
I won’t deny
through such grandeur
what did indeed
appear and seemed
a valiant try
for your part
at least
but, then,surprise…
It’s still just me
without compromise
and shouldn’t be
such a novel thing
that I’m no Lady
after so much
of the go and touch
fucking redundancy
see the burning
behind my eyes
please just let me be
so it goes that
eyes like mine
are not destined to see.

Loop.

This was how it always began, she knew; this was the miserably familiar feeling of progressing – long and far, and with much despair on the way – blood, sweat, tears – only to eventually carry you to the gut-wrenching realization that you’re patterning a circle – a loop, and nothing more. This seat in front of her word processor, its heavy anchor wrapped mockingly around her ankle, her drink to her left and her joint in her right hand – lodged stubbornly between her index and middle fingers; her mind unsettled on the huge task at hand.
This was a painfully familiar routine, a drill that she practiced as if it were her religious motivation; This was the scout to the expedition – the quiet before the storm; this was an integral part of her every day, twice a day – maybe more. The details behind that part are irrelevant, really…the point is meant to be that she knew the truth could never be set loose. This was Déjà vu; she sat down at that over-sized LCD screen repeatedly, ready to unleash those thoughts and feelings in a indefensible barrage of details and recollections; ready to unload her burdens onto the backs of those to which they truly belonged; she’d go into this state of being that she avoided as much as she was able to – impenetrable focus on those people who were responsible for all of the tragedy, so much unnecessary tragedy.
It was somewhere in between the grips of this dark, animalistic, dangerously focused state of being, and that of the next state in this repetitive sequence, that a fiber of her identity was lost each time. The emotional roller coaster that undoubtedly followed this sub-human concentration was inevitable, although manifesting in different ways with each new appearance. Sometimes she’d cry inconsolably out of shame and guilt, or become too unraveled to refocus her attentions on this chronicle at hand; sometimes she would psychologically work herself in a rage so blinding that she would black out and regain consciousness later in the day, without memory of the hours in between; still, other times found her miserable with denial and disbelief at her circumstance – rendering her so frustrated that she would embark on a new expedition via the World Wide Web, in search of a specific legal code, government policy, or the elusive attorney that would be able to get her on track with getting justice for her only child – now grown into a disturbingly sinister young person. She sighed, the hot breath that she released from her mouth reminded her of how thirsty she was, and she lifted her ice-cold drink gingerly to her mouth for a short gulp.

I gotta cut back on this shit…for New Year’s, I will…

Despite the fizzling tingle on her tonsils as she savored the refreshing sweetness of the drink’s bite, each swallow induced a wave of pain that racked through her head like wildfire through a dry meadow.

I really need to get those teeth pulled…soon…

Her mental notes always contained some sort of self-imposed delay attached to them; as she was not so much of a go-getter these days. Her spirit seemed to have just up and decided to fly somewhere else; or perhaps it had gradually just faded away with so much time spent being abused and beaten down, she didn’t know. Physical pain was not even always a surefire way to get her to force herself into the masses, and she would only resort to seeking medical treatment during the most dire of situations, given an exceptionally high pain-threshold. She had no desire left to mingle with the human-mutants that surrounded her – those despicable and savage creatures that had once seemed so different than her. As she sat, tonguing at the sore molars in her mouth for the umpteenth time that morning, her very core was hollow to its deepest fathom of being, and she knew it beyond any doubt. And at that, she would repeatedly find herself at a total loss for…well, for pretty much anything.
Any former plans, aspirations or goals seemed comical to the remaining logic residing within the empty shell that she walked around inside of. Nothing could ever make things right again, no matter what anyone, including herself, might pull out of a sleeve in attempt to force the appearance of true justice.
Justice
This word had long ago, dug its way beneath the tangible consciousness of her being – the vague ghost which her body beheld, and had been buried – at a time that felt like lifetimes ago.
Justice
A folly that remains depicted in every corner of the national court as a foundational concept of law, liberty and decency – the proverbial snapshot of a pair of scales, polished to a reflective, brassy shine, ever-balanced perfectly against one another – affecting the virtuous and the good of humankind. The iconic symbol of trial and judgment: the biggest mockery in American history.

“Because, what a bunch of horse-shit it all is in real life, the scales of Justice?”

she spat bitterly out loud;

“…as if those scales aren’t rigged to tip in only the most evil of fashions against what is TRULY GOOD and JUST – regardless of the matter at hand…”

The heat in her face became a noticeable burn across her cheeks and forehead, and the tiny wisps of baby hair at her light blonde hairline stuck there from the increasing layer of sweat, despite several attempts to blow it away. A loud bang sounded following the rap of her hand heavily against the desk at which she sat, struggling to find any useful weapon within her once highly impressive linguistic arsenal. She hated thinking about these things – as she knew all too well what the result of her brooding would be – stagnancy and frustration, despair and self-loathing beyond description; just more of the same routine that her life seemed to be defined more completely by everyday.
This, is the Juvenile Justice System’s very essence: confusion and perpetual lack legal articulation. The agenda in this hideous arena remains increasingly different from ‘Truth or Accountability’; the so-called ‘Home of the Brave’ is chock full of the world’s biggest chicken-shit trust-fund fed politicians and useless financial backers and/or holders. Yes, ‘the Brave’ being those in positions of power and action, congressional and legislative ring-leading clowns, community social workers and those that oversee their actions, judges, psychiatrists and medical doctors, varying “specialists” of the intrinsically heinous legal arena – a collective of those “brave” enough to steal the very light from the eyes of a child in need of her mother – to disgustingly and unashamedly make a buck off of the very families to which they claim the service of Justice.
Justice… the word made her stomach do cartwheels and the cavity-borne headache return. And, this was how it always played out for her. She became venomous then, an emotion so familiar and easily recognized by her character that its appearance onto the scene of her chaotic existence hardly attracted attention anymore; she forgot to breathe for a few, drawn out moments while she stared blankly at the screen, waiting for the right words to come; waiting to finally begin the report of despicable truths that had ultimately ruined the lives of her immediate family.
Nothing…nothing…
The anger began its bubbling within her every nano-particle, frustrated and exacerbated by the lack of stimulus. She allowed the thoughts to come to her awareness, knowing from experience that the attempt to shut them out would be a futile one; experiencing the anticipated rush of a variety of uncontrollable emotion and perception, unleashing the memories intentionally now in feeble hope that the raw force associated with them would somehow miraculously be guided onto the screen – that this release will open the gateways to her collected verbal arsenal, the most lasting of any known weapons of war.
In a former life, she had been a poet – a spotlight verbal violinist in the most well-known operas – somebody who was able to change things, touch people, and create inspiration and awe through her exquisitely procured and ever-growing vocabulary. The details that her stories offered were vast and all-encompassing; each piece’s poetry was a feat that she carried, attached to a tether at the end of stick –exacting complete control over its every directional move – she contoured its path, essentially; so influential and dominant was she in the play of words in written form, that sometime – long ago, but for reasons unclear to her now – she began to take the gift for granted. And now, that gift had all but left her totally without. She had stupidly allowed herself to slip into the realm of self-righteousness: an unforgiving and deceptive place from which a human with a spirit will return without anything at all to love, to be loved for. Hollowed out and superficial, she had returned to write the chronicle at hand – the most important one she could ever create. The expressive art that she had beheld since her first memories began did not return along with her, however – leaving her in a perpetual state of the most torturous deficiency and need.
Need…
The word made the corners of her navy blue eyes wrinkled as they shrunk tightly into a squint, with all of the co-dependent implications attached to its ugly, four-letter face.
THIS NEEDS TO STOP…
Tomorrow is another day, and if she sees tomorrow – she will return to this drill and try again.