Jul 2013
I was never the bad one. Not until now. Yet here I am with ice coated fire in my eyes, the gaze that I have seen so many times in the men who have hurt me, a monster of their creation. It feels like the good in me has receded into the castle I was forced to build around my heart and is starving out the battalions of intent. I need to cleanse myself of this abomination, a mental labyrinth meant to keep myself from success, my own worse enemy - me.
There was a girl I liked once, when she was living in Italy. Her hair was white-gold in the sun and her blue-yellow eyes were always open, though often exhaustion fought to close them. Even when she cried she was beautiful, because she did not hide her sadness, or her anger, and the blue and yellow became cerulean pools to swim in. Her happiness made strangers smile, she stood upright despite her height of 5"11, and she woke up every morning with the knowledge that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be. This girl, this donna, had that chemical spark in her stare, fed by the history of several centuries, and always, always, her intentions were true. She spoke to strangers, slaughtering their language but they did not mind because she was trying, forever trying to bring joy into her heart. That kind of determination becomes a cloak of silver lace that brings others closer to you, all seeking the refuge of contentment, until everyone is wearing the same spider web of felicè and little iridescent strings form a community of pulsing satisfaction.
I wish I was still her, and sometimes I am, but mostly I believe she is waiting on the rosy marble steps of the duomo while I battle my invisible monsters. I do not think I will see her I again until I knock down that castle, surrendering my slender body and my past and those tremors in the night. I hope she is still there, her cheeks matching the cathedral's glow underneath the pink clouds of dawn, to embrace me when I fall to my knees, begging her to share the cloak we wove together.
There was a girl I liked once, when she was living in Italy. Her hair was white-gold in the sun and her blue-yellow eyes were always open, though often exhaustion fought to close them. Even when she cried she was beautiful, because she did not hide her sadness, or her anger, and the blue and yellow became cerulean pools to swim in. Her happiness made strangers smile, she stood upright despite her height of 5"11, and she woke up every morning with the knowledge that everything was exactly how it was supposed to be. This girl, this donna, had that chemical spark in her stare, fed by the history of several centuries, and always, always, her intentions were true. She spoke to strangers, slaughtering their language but they did not mind because she was trying, forever trying to bring joy into her heart. That kind of determination becomes a cloak of silver lace that brings others closer to you, all seeking the refuge of contentment, until everyone is wearing the same spider web of felicè and little iridescent strings form a community of pulsing satisfaction.
I wish I was still her, and sometimes I am, but mostly I believe she is waiting on the rosy marble steps of the duomo while I battle my invisible monsters. I do not think I will see her I again until I knock down that castle, surrendering my slender body and my past and those tremors in the night. I hope she is still there, her cheeks matching the cathedral's glow underneath the pink clouds of dawn, to embrace me when I fall to my knees, begging her to share the cloak we wove together.
