As I am the offspring of many a fantasy novel, and science fiction adventure, of horrific foes in all shapes and personalities, a child of heroes, damsels in distress and warrior princesses -
Naturally -
I expected a certain order to things. I may have been mistaken.
I used to paint with fervor. Drinking coffee till morning hours, hands feverishly grabbing at paints and pastels. I'd lay the color down. A brush in my mouth and one in my hand. Rubbing paint and charcoal deep into canvas and paper. Thick. I would get inside the paper. My world. Black and vibrant blood red. Stark white sheets calling out to me, begging to be brought to life, brought to light.
Now my hands feel so empty. Shallow. Lost their purpose? I try picking up the brush, but it just hangs. Empty. Cold, without the heat that used to burn through my fingers. How did I get here? Colors still dance around my head. Shapes, ideas, visions. They bang against the bars of my impotence. While my hands hang. Waiting...for something.
laid bare i’m bleeding here assaulted with rare forwardness - i just didn’t know how to defend myself
a little panic plays in my head as securities are disarmed and well hidden shadows of my self start slipping out pouring out bursting out out out out (god, they want out)
making a fine mess of me, you are *and I am not even yours to mess with
i'm wanting like hard brittle things want to break
stuttering, trying to explain to the organized, box trained how badly i need a little chaos
cause those patterns out there in the stars make way more sense to me than your day planners
And i've tried. half my life i've tried the people pleasing parts of me, still ******* trying to play the expected parts so much so that my own offspring - my own blood looks at me now with foreign eyes reflecting the familiar disapproval
as I burn up the parts of me i'm done with the parts they told me I had to be letting all the "ugly" colors bleed through
everyday I get a little closer to what i'm supposed to be...
*and I hope you find your way out of that box, baby girl. i should have been a better teacher*
you did love him once, didn't you? made your own gilded bed, didn't you? didn't see the pretty chains slipping around your throat, did you? he asked if you were sure, and you said yes, didn't you?
didn't you.
he would like you to break. those silly dreams he would take to pieces.
and give you something else back maybe not entirely you but it will do
just as long as you stop fighting
can't say that he stole what was offered up so freely, this stubborn little soul
write. write. write. you say speak I babble - mouth leak you say listen but shift uncomfortable when my eyes probe yours too deep. you can’t handle this long, cavernous, uncomfortable silence this is where I live, ravenous.
hungry hungry hungry
you say eat but again, your eyes won’t meet my own afraid I might devour what’s left of your power so I starve. starve. starve.
I speak in metaphors feel in colors, think in painted movie screens
My tongue a sluggish traitor to the quick flashing shades in my heart
I try to
STOP.
RESET.
START.
but that train of thought has left the station and editors start to intervene - before new pictures come fully into focus, the domesticated directors in my mind yell "CUT" and that impish tongue obeys
I paddle the air trying to stir up the scent of what was about to be - but it refuses to come
ever loyal hands rush to my rescue cupping temples and eyes catching fallen thoughts to later let loose upon paper
love me with hands open ready for my own to intertwine love me without binds that would only break the soft things my soul longs to speak to you love me love me love me *I do
intrigue ignites quickly in me as I search for a word a glance a quietly whispered GO! to unleash the patiently pacing girl who wants nothing less than the world, or just her freedom.
but the seconds, days,years pass False alarms or missed moments?