Fifty-percent illusion at any given time. Your unintended muse will plead 'not guilty' to the crime Of snatching back the quill and reshaping every line into the role she wished to play -- it seems the choice was never mine --
but the boy with the weighted wedding ring, the self-appointed jury of the south; him sheepish at the door with roses, and the brute who owns this house.
Was it feminine mystique or was I crystal clear while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
A three-act structured tragedy. All archetypes assigned. "We've had this date since the beginning" -- if the part must be mine to play, it is in my hands to manipulate. Direct your blame to those who cast the roles.
Torn petticoat, blue piano; flattered by the dimming glow -- oh, to be glossy pink and gold! A trophy bride. A victor's prize. (I snap awake and still see his eyes -- that ego swells him thrice my size -- with bruising force, he parts my thighs.)
Was it hysteria - madness? - or was I crystal clear while you blocked your ears and pretended not to hear?
My fate was written for me, in the frontal lobes of those who came before me: down that narrative route, all bumps and troughs -- desire! Fragments of an old Rossetti poem... o, vanity of vanities... the streetcar rattles and groans.
self-indulgent b-side to the prior poem 'i, ophelia'; honing in on blanche dubois (a streetcar named desire). excuse the rhymes, it's been a while.
i was young... well, younger than now---- it was when it first struck me it struck me hard. it struck me like reality... but more like reality when reality comes in the face of your family all in chains... then, reality looks like dreams altogether; no not fantasy---- not exactly a nightmare either more like ----ecstasy----- "you are a special weapon" "something of great potential" "and massive power" "but you only have one shot" mom always used to say. i even once thought she stashed some kind of deathray or sting ray or something in my arm---- ----it won't be the first thing she stuffed in me anyway... i was eight years old when she finally continued the sentence. before total silence. "make it count." "cause whether you hit" "or even if you miss..." "you would be broken" "shattered-----" "torn to pieces-----" "torn apart." "so please" "don't" "break" "yourself" "shooting" "for" "nothing." she never taught me how to use the weapon myself----- she just fragmented in tears before splintering tearing to shards herself it took me til 15 that i was afraid to yet touch even stare even think nothing. i never knew what i was capable of i never knew how to control to even activate all i knew was that i was powerful i don't know what of but i have to save it keep it live it nurture it store it amass it seep it savor it understand it study it feel it polish it train it let it breathe let it sing i could hear it sing i could feel it whisper----- and i was so afraid... all i saw of my mother was that she was in pieces long before i knew her. shambles and shackles and i don't want to be that when i fire---- it wasn't supposed to strike me but it did, and it struck me hard reality i was 16 when i first made the discovery ----love----- all at once and much, much too completely----all off guard. it was like you suddenly turned a blinding light on something that had always been half a shadow that's how it struck me... that's how it shattered me... it's like a full flashback of my mother saying 'i told you so' except she never did. and it struck me. like i hit the right target at the wrong time or the opposite of it but truth is i just hit a poltergeist way too soon and it wasn't like it was the wind that was hit---- that's how it struck me, love and that's how it tore me apart. ----fragmented---- and it did not take me long to realise what glass cannons we were... all my life i never tried to activate my strength and when i did it imploded. it was a long time... and i was blinded---- it wasn't the hit nor was it the miss that tore me apart it was love that broke me because shattered pieces are not all that bad splinters... shards... fragments... blades... one shot was all it took to break my heart and so suddenly... every part of me... was a weapon everyone who held me hurt bled cried pained burned wailed enraged agonized they turned to anger then turned to hate they turned to each other pretty soon turning to waste it was then that it struck me what a glass cannon is---- and it was until now that i was eluded... for that long a time i thought shards were all love could offer... fragments were all romance could be i met your father your father your father your father and your father all through different shards until i saw what i had all in shambles and all in shackles just like my mother that's when it struck me ---ecstasy--- cause looking into your eyes my children i love you as a whole not like with your fathers or like with the guys before them or like the guys before the other guys i wanted more than ever to love you more than a few shards all tainted with blood or with anger or with both---- that's when it hit me and it hit me with so much pain... what my mother really should have said. being a glass cannon doesn't mean being a weapon to hurt others----- it means one day, no one knows when, but it will surely come like a thief in the night... love and you will give your all even if it shatters you to pieces and even if you are already in pieces because you know love can make you again whole.
Inspired by one of the most famous lines spoken by the protagonist Blanche in the play A Streetcar Named Desire---- the line shown in bold and italics---- Title by Marianne
Have you ever felt Like you've gone too far to stop? What if you're falling?
When you fall deeply Quickly descending so bleak Would you climb back up?
Have you ever tried Climbing atop a mountain And then miss the ground?
When you are falling It's not the fall that kills you It's the sudden stop.
Blanche is the man protagonist of the play A Streetcar Named Desire and a woman who lived in her delusions of reality. She continued to fall deeper into her dreams until a taste of reality made her snap to insanity in the end--- It was her fantasies that kept her sane.
Blanche is also close to the Blanca or Blancé meaning white or pure, basically empty.