You killed my heart, what did you do to me? My own skin seems someone else’s, and these eyes, they seem like strangers glaring back at me. When my nails tap the porcelain leaned against my waist they echo harshly. I feel my hair that somehow feels like straw. The long strands wire down like rope. When once I knew warmth there is only distance, not even the cold.
How long to have gone without that touch so pure. ******* to the lungs drawing in this air, my breath is taking an eternity leaving my chest. This self knows nothing of it. What has it done to me, this life of this body it longs so dearly to complete the song of her mother. I chose not to make it exist, like all the ones before them. We just are. Sometimes we take that life, this blood surging for naught, pretending it had meant nothing.
These glazed eyes, my callous soul seen too much knows too little. Oh this curse of blessed life. This blessing is cold to my nose pressed against the glass, blowing fogged stains. When will I know this comfort of loving what someone else chose to exist? I didn’t know what it took to keep inhaling, this sacred air, and these holy breaths. The decrepit guard of clergy took these words from us. Outside our choice, much like our parents, our creators, separate from our will. What are we then, but helpless children flailing in thin air?
I gave it all my being, that my teeth and tongue meant for sacrifice of sacred love that was my choice yet not a choice to want, merely whom to give it to. To give and not taking is all that is necessary for me. I never wanted to want, from him, the clear brown eyes that he hurt, though it ended up this way. Feeling hands, soft skin and the touch of warmth. Our starving bodies knew our desires.
The cold glass of this mirror, stripes and wipes on top of my reflected eyes looking back, she confronts me with my own emptiness. What was real will remain past, my distance dystopian darkened light. The porcelain gleams around my veined hands, and I had warmth dissipating to it. My lips once told long stories and cradled my voice through darkness, caressed his skin and soft hairs to sleep. But what am I now, if only I can recount these miseries? That I had not my visor on my own heart but on his bliss and pain. Who can I tell when I am alone what happiness once meant to me? How the joy comes from fleeting concerns and then leaves without a word for parting. I know they will come back to dance with me in the night kissed grass. My bare feet have taken its colour, and when they get cold the veined hands hold them in their cradling motions. The moon comes out to greet this marvellous sense of awareness and freedom until she sets before the sun again. This night air knows that I know her. When I was solitary once and knew all inches of my own heart. No one in sight, chipping away pieces with the chisel I gave him. No one knows my heart so I will teach myself yet again to see it as it is.
Me. Myself. My reflected image.
© March 31st