Away

I want to talk to you
But I don’t know what to say
Sometimes I think things would be better
If I simply went away.

The Inkwell: Cynric’s Rumination, and a Piece of the Past

I was supposed to do this last month, with this entry inspired by/including the word “revolution…” Goldie, who I’m borrowing these prompts from, already has done the entry for March… which… is almost over, isn’t it? I feel like now would be a good time to mention that I’m terrible with time. Anyway, if you care to, you can find the story that this is an extension of here.

***

Cynric’s Rumination:

“It starts like this, little sister:
With a silent, failing song
And we find we know the steps
And we start to sing along

And people call it revolution
As if it’s something new
But it’s as old as the world
And even older too

See, here comes the crescendo:
If we can keep in time
Then perhaps we’ll solve this mystery
And might one day solve mine.”

***

20 years ago:

The little girl screamed and screamed as her father’s hand, open or closed, found her brother’s head again and again. She cried and begged for the ten year-old’s sake, pleading for the staying of her father’s drunken rage. But in his red-tinted eyes, he saw only her age; not the age that he and a bitter world had made her, but the one that told him she was three years more of a child than the small monster upon which he now poured his temper.

“You’re no son of mine!” slurred the drunken man, smacking the boy again, who inched fearfully backwards. “You’re the devil’s son, you are!” Another blow, another retreat. “If your mother were alive, I’d throw you into the fire, spare her the pain of having to see the beast that you are!”

At the words ‘your mother,’ the boy froze, and fear gave way to fire. He became aware that he was standing just before the furnace, and at his father’s words, something rose up within him. “Do it, then,” the boy hissed, and for a moment he felt he might truly be some son of the devil. But he went onward, the words spilling out almost before he was aware of them. “If you were more of a man you might, but you’re not. You’re a coward and a fool. She’s dead, because you’re weak.”

The room went deadly silent as they stared at each other, the one with such a look as made the other flinch, the other with eyes that grew wider with each second that passed. “You really are a monster,” whispered the latter, horror slowly dawning into righteous anger. He went into motion, grabbing the boy by the collar, thrusting him into the furnace and shutting him in. There came up screams like a howl, and they seemed to go on and on as the father staggered backward, hand over his mouth. The little girl stared in shock, tears spent, as her brother’s screams finally died off.

The drunken man, much sobered now, turned toward his daughter. His eyes softened at her pitiful countenance, and he took a step towards her. She flinched. “It’s alright, Joy,” he said, coming closer, beckoning. “It’ll be alright, just come to me, child.” She shook her head, tears finding their way to her eyes again.

“I had a dream,” she whispered. “You tried to hurt me… But Cynric saved me.” She looked up at her father. “He was all burned up.”

“You…” The man groaned, a sound like a strangled animal; something faded from his eyes. “You too?” He grabbed a length of pipe from a nearby table, debris from a project he never began. “I see now,” he said, nodding sagely. “I should have done this before. Demon children, both of you.” He took a step forward. Then another, and another. Her fear was a glue that held her to the wall as he approached, and she sat crouched, shaking, when the first blow came. It hit her on the head and knocked her sideways, and the next she was aware she was on the ground, helpless as the second blow came down upon her side, accompanied by a cracking sound and a terrible pain.

Consciousness was beginning to take on sand-like qualities; but she looked up, and the last thing she saw was her father’s slumping body, and her brother standing behind him, clothing — what remained — in burnt tatters, a bloody knife in hand.

Letter Without Address

Eliza wrote about how she has a dream of having a collection of letters from a bunch of different people, sort of open letters to anyone who might be struggling with suicidal thoughts. Letters without address, meant for anyone who needs them. I don’t know if this qualifies — I’m definitely no Eliza — but…

***

To whoever you are, whatever you’ve done:

I dance with fire. I dance, and everyone around me burns trying to drag me away from the flame. No matter how cold they get, or how many buckets of water they try to bring, often it just makes the flame seem warmer, that much more enticing. The more they try, the more of a failure I realize that I am. And I can’t escape the fact that if I just stepped into the fire, then they wouldn’t be rushing to and fro, worrying. I can’t help but wonder if all I am is a burden… Or maybe even a monster. I don’t know about you, but as for me, I’ve gotten very good at using people. I’m not good at much else; but you don’t have to be if you know the right things to say.

It scares me sometimes. And at every encouragement, every eager entreaty, every assurance that yes, I am worth it — at every one, I wonder. Do they know? Can they? If they can’t see the monster inside, the pathetic little beast that I am, how can they pass any kind of fair judgement? And often, I’ll smile at the well wishes, shake my head, and then stash them away in that deep, deep place in my heart where bright things still dare to live, but so rarely dare to come out. I think a part of me is hoping that if I save up enough of those, I’ll be able to afford a highway between that bright place, and the world outside.

Maybe whoever’s reading this can beat me to it. Whatever kindness I have, is yours. Death is always there. Life? Not so much. Give Life a chance to prove you wrong. Give others a chance to make their own choices — yes, even about you and your worth. If they hate you, let them hate you. If they love you, let them love you. And if you’re completely alone, then forget about yourself for a moment; Be for someone else what you always wished someone could be for you.

And maybe, embrace a platitude or two.

Good luck

The #1 Most Inconvenient Thing In the World

Shall I call down Death from on his throne,
An abdication to declare?
For his lordship over worst of woes
Has a challenger!
Often it’s been whispered
That there’s a thing that’s worse than Death;
And it’s this very thing that’s snickered
As I’ve cursed under my breath!
It’s a nuisance I can scarce compare…
(Do tell if you’ve a metaphor to lend!)
And I call myself a poetry connoisseur —
But no, meter is not my friend!

***

Sorry for being absent these last few days. Had some things on my mind… Still do. But let’s see if we can work poetry into it, eh? Just don’t expect perfect meter. I’ve never been able to fully wrap my mind around that…

Glimpsing the Tapestry

There is no rhyme or reason.
Or — there may yet be.
There’s no telling in my current season,
Where life still has its grip on me.

I want to know the answer.
What’s the reason for the wait?
But I am going nowhere
While there’s still thread left for my fate.

Not Me: Thinking Out Loud

I’m so sorry… Of all the things I could have been, I became this. I could’ve been like my brother and reached out and made a life for myself where I could.

But instead I’m here. Still just sitting here. Waiting for something to befall me, be it destiny or accident.

Probably accident. Screech, crash, bang, and then I’m gone, in all likelihood. It would be just like me to not be paying any attention and accidentally step in front of a car. It wouldn’t be on purpose, of course. But it wouldn’t be exactly unwelcome.

I sometimes like to pretend that I can see the future. The prediction is always the same: I’m going to die alone. It’s not even a future anymore, it’s a fact. I’m going to die alone. So what’s it matter if it’s distant or soon?

I’ve lived nineteen years, going on twenty. So young, and often much younger than I should be. And yet those years, these days, they crawl by like an eternity, and they’ve never changed in form, not really. The world is still a distant thing, and I am still… what I am: The person who walks on the path before me. And it’s still a circular one.

My brother sees this. He sees us all going in circles, ducking our heads, diving into whatever we can to hide. He wants it to change. He wants it to change — but he doesn’t want to change it. None of us do. It would be like organizing a junkyard… while being attacked by a pack of wild dogs. Nobody wants to take that on. Especially when the thing we’re taking on, is the nothingness of never taking anything on. Someone has to start. But each of us vows, it won’t be us. 

A Dangerous Game

I’ve joked that I’m betrothed to Death,
But now he’s haunting me:
A betrayed and forsworn lover;
Or so is his fantasy.

A coquette pays the price, it seems,
And pays it all in tears;
In promises left echoing,
And those awful, certain fears.

When then will he find me,
And what vengeance will he bring?
Will it be on one I truly love,
And what then’s the point of anything?

There would be no more to life for me;
And in such a case, it doesn’t seem so bad
To engage in a betrothal
Where there’s freedom to be had.

Embrace of One’s Fate

I am the one
Who would die in the storm,
Having cried out before
“Let it come, let it come!

“Let it take what it will
And go on its way;
And if it chooses to stay…
Then thy will be done.”

Heavy is the Heart of Gold

Heavy is the heart of gold
When all those it tried to save
Continue on to just go cold
And find their way into the grave.

Heavy is the heart of gold
When every word it tried to say
Gets swallowed up in tales twice-told,
Lost in shades of gray.

Heavy is the heart of gold
When none will help to lift it;
I wonder, if someone just took hold,
Could something then be different?

The Shadow Man

She trembles beneath her covers
As a shadow crawls out from her wall…
Suddenly, to the day she wakes:
It was just a dream after all.

But the next night it comes again:
She feels as if it’s somehow closer.
Surely she’s going insane
And this thing will just blow over?

A week, and then a month;
These doctors cannot help her.
Not even a shaman, nor a priest:
They cannot give her shelter.

Things begin to happen:
A tragedy that shows up on the news
Will sometimes seem familiar…
And whence came this bruise?

More and more as time goes on
She feels she’s filling up with shadow,
And whatever else is left of her
Feels more and more hollow.

Until one day she wakes up
And it’s her brother’s body that is found.
No one can tell her how he died:
He wasn’t strangled, stabbed, or drowned.

Only that it fits
With a recent string of deaths:
It was like they just gave up the ghost
And simply ceased taking breaths.

But no one would believe it
When she told them it was murder;
No one would believe it
When she said that it was her.

The shadow came again that night,
And there was nothing she could do;
The next morning another death
Was reported on the news.

Here she puts an end to it:
She’ll take her own life.
But the police don’t find her body;
They only find the bloody knife.