I’ve loved satin and lace for a long time, yet believed I was too rugged to enjoy such luxury. That being draped by something that feels like butter on a porcelain vase desecrates its sanctity. I was never meant for such grandeur, as I am made of stone. Coarse, menacing, and hard. Such gentleness doesn’t befit an ever-destructive chaos. I was a whirlwind romance, a cacophony of squawking ravens and crows, a relentless repetition of echoes in the caving mountains, a disastrous flair in an illicit affair. A damsel and the prince, the one who saves her own soul from eternal damnation. Yet. I was taught softness once. How I can be a gentle breeze from the northerlies, like a lily pad floating on a laminar stream, or a dandelion fluttering in the breeze. But this softness was robbed. From me, from everything else. Returning me to the state I came to hate the most, to shy away from, to loathe and bury like a cadaver that reeked of nothing but ill intent. Which made me realize that this time there was no turning back, that I was calloused now, permanently. Transforming a learning heart into a plethora of evil and demise. A gatherer of sorrows, a charmer of guilt. A benign tumor, a tactless joke. What’s harder is that there’s no clear road to return.
The evil in me seeps through cracks.
