by Tess McInnis
PALE by Within Temptation Marbled way I am walking. Marble. Gray with feather white streaks telling me it is real. What is real? I sit in the eye of fall leaves blowing circular and fast with tornado speed. Dizzying me with each leaf demanding my attention as it screams. Judgment, a picture or word in shades of orange off the leaves and onto me. Whirling faster, I hold steady to the ground with my hands, but my head is trying to catch what each dying green has to say to me and say, so loudly. I see the mouths of these foil ages moving slower than the spin itself and I catch one. It yells in uncontrollable pain screaming “daddy...daddy help me” and then it laughs evil into my hands. I scrunch and destroy the leaf leaving to the wind in anger. There are so many and now I am terrified to pluck one more...but I do. I reach for a newer one in mostly green. It is crying and begs me “mommy, I need you” and then it melts completely into my hand. I am stuck here. I bring my knees to my chest and bury my head deep within them, trying to ignore all which is happening around me. My hands hold my head in position. The tornado of leaves gives a shove to knock me flat...and I am on marble. Marble, beautifully mastered for me, but by who? I look up to see my father standing there in his old work clothes. I am in the trailer of shame with my own children, they are young again. And she is there. Sitting across the table from my oldest daughter. I fear. I fear. I fear. Until my father picks up my youngest child and begins twirling, not unlike the leaves. He holds her up high, giving her a kiss first and he spins...his clothes change to an expensive suit of the finest fabric, she is giggling along with the other two. Whirling her around and around, everything changes. It changes into marble. Beautiful marble. He is smiling.
The room is different. The handcuffs are gone. I am under observation as I know this because the windows are reversed. Instead of glass looking outside, there is glass looking in, at me. I can see figures and make out other shaded items. I can see movement. I just look away. This is the worst kind of notion...of being on display. Like an elephant man at a circus freak show, and I don't even get to charge admission. They will just stare and take notes. I will do one of two things or both. I will freeze completely to my core so they have nothing. Or I will be pushed to react to this raping humility. To feel less than human by your own doing is your own recipe which only you can cook and feed on. But to feel less than human because others dominated your world, chose or demanded their will be done on you...it is the most wicked place inside you to have to live. Whether it is an adult sickeningly torturing a child, or a system owning you like cattle, or even those who think they know better than you, than you, it becomes an oppositional-defiant moment. My psyche is a culmination of a life of shit pushers. Human beings jilted in their own shit life somehow...using whatever destroyed them at some point in their upbringings as arrows, target me. I have this gift as a result. I see into them. It is my built in protective mechanism or hyper sensitivity to the book of others. I can will at anytime to go in thru their eyes and read what they are about. Most everyone is a shit pusher. If they are not a shit pusher, then they are a hider. A hider is without courage but ambition to shove their pain down someone else's throat. I have at any time in my life been a victim, victimized or have victimized. I too, have been a shit pusher at some moment of feeling powerless. I admit to the harming of others at their expense. Knives have been drawn in days of past to feed my own tainted ego from others hurting me. Everyone does it. Today, I lay in guilt of mind in this bed as I am once again at their mercy.
COMA WHITE by Marilyn Manson
“I want to be a lovely person” I yell at the top of my lungs baring the reverie off the hollow white room. I scream it again, “I want to be a lovely person” this time holding out on the last note of the word 'person'. They stand and stare. They take notes. From where in my deepest bowels does this thought live. That I could ever be considered 'lovely'. The world has robbed me of this adjective. I know this. I look in the mirror and there is not a 'lovely' reflection. Only what I see is someone doomed to fires of hell for first time I took breathe. I scream at the top of my lungs. I jump from my bed to find the damn mirror. I will kill the mirror and the woman I see looking into it. My gown is falling to one side as I hit the bathroom, only to note it is a metal mirror, much like one in prison. My reflection still of warped reality, of hateful pangs ruffling my gut. I head butt the mirror. Not once. Not twice. Not until I see red. Blood must come. Brains would be better...if it would all just fall out and be taken away from me. I turn to the rough white brick wall and continue my crushing ritual there...and I see that color. Pouring down into my eyes, tasting like a copper penny in my mouth, and I am happy. I fall to the toilet whispering “I will never be a lovely person mommy”. I take the red dripping fast along my face and smile inside for the comfort it brings. I look up and Doctor gentle, my so called brother is standing in the bathroom doorway. His mouth gaped open for what flies he will catch in here.
“What the fuck do u want?” not really a question just pissed at his projection of importance in my life. Pissed he is in my personal hell unwanted.
“What are you doing?” He finally says in a voice mimicking a girl. “why are you doing this?” This is not a doctor's words, but a family type consideration. “Oh my God, look at you” He continues with tone I find funny and close to sounding like he is gay. I giggle to myself. I tell myself he is gay. I giggle more.
“What is the matter fag, haven't you ever seen blood before, you fuckin' sissy” I tell him matter of factually. He moves towards me to get to the sink for a towel to clean me.
“Don't fuckin' bother” I tell him.
He doesn't listen.
He wets the towel and begins his approach, like an airplane searching for soft, slow ground, inching his hand down onto my head. I flinch at his entry into my mind bubble and pull back.
“Why?” he shakes his head and tries again. This time, I kick him in the stomach with brute force knocking him back into the bathroom door.
“You are not a lovely person either” I tell him. I turn on the toilet seat and bring my knees up to my chest, resting my head on them. Claret clots resting too there. Doctor gentle composes himself enough to say “this has got to stop...” he wipes his brow and continues “How am I ever going to help you if you don't help me to do it”. Nothing he has just said makes sense at all. Help me to help you....blah, blah,blah. I am drinking my own life fluid like a vampire and loving the feeling it gives to me.
He says “listen, you just got out of the hospital, now you will probably need stitches for this, what else? What fuckin' else kind of shit are you going to keep pulling? ENOUGH IS ENOUGH...FUCKING GET OVER IT, over it, get your head back on straight and back to your life, your kids..” I have heard enough....I stand to face my brother within inches of his being...my battered nose almost meeting his “AND WHO IN THE HELL ARE YOU TO TELL ME TO GET OVER IT?....” sarcasm born of hate coming fast upon him “YOU....you who rides in like a white knight from a privileged silver spooned life with a 'lovely' mother...mister captain save a ho', thinking you will be saved by judgment yourself if you save a lost sister nobody ever wanted to begin with...fuck you” and use my hand to wipe across my forehead, collect my blood and slap the air towards him, meaning to hit him hard with raindrops of blood now speckling his face. This time he doesn't flinch. Not a bit. His eyes have dilated to an almost black peering back at me. He is livid.
“YOU were the one who never wanted love, SO COLD...no one could ever get near you...touch you, hug you....YOU acted like a black sheep or something...”
“I WAS A BLACK SHEEP MOTHERFUCKER ...you were to young to even notice, and you probably didn't notice when that bitch gave me away either....from her arms right into the arms of an alcoholic mom who used me as her plaything...where were you then?” Our faces arguing, words flying with accusations of love and unlove...rage was with us and I was happy for her presence. He was not backing down, and he was no doctor here. He had his own agenda to find peace within himself. And I was the gatekeeper.
“What? WHAT? What do you want to hear...I will tell you anything, but it may be truth, it may be lie...because who are you? Who are you to me? Another fucking human deciding how I should think, how I should feel, or do you just need to forgive yourself before you forget me again?”
I pulled away from his hand on my chin and looked away. I won't give him the satisfaction of my tears. I have spilled many all my life, but I won't do it here for him. He will not own this moment, my feelings, or take this shelter I need so bad right now. Yet, I willed to give him this. Softly, I whispered “It is not your fault for what I see...it is not your fault for what I feel...it is not your fault for what has happened to me, you were just a child...” he begins to cry. I watch as he wipes feverishly, almost crazed, my blood off of him. He is sobbing, cleaning, muttering and not looking at me.
His hands placed firmly on each side of sink....his head goes down, and a wisp of brown hair covers his brow. I feel now. Not me. I feel him. A silent crying in a solemn place....feels like church has happened here. I see his prayer rolling over the top of the room, like the words themselves are gracing the ceiling pouring all over him. My face has humbled, the blood is dry and cracking. Cracking. So am I. Words. I need to say something before I can't breathe in here anymore. Before I can't take anymore in here. But what do I say....I am the lunatic, the crazy -borderline -bi -polar -depressed soul who wishes death...I try to think normal and cannot. He now is on his knees, still crying, still arms, hands hanging over sink. I cannot touch him. I do not remember how to hold another. I do not remember how to comfort someone else. Silence. I want to close my eyes and be somewhere else at this moment. I cannot even pull out the words “I am sorry”.
I hate myself that much more.
“I remember you....” he barely gets the words to me, his voice soft, still breaking. “I remember everything...when they took you away, I thought I had lost my play friend...and I would walk around the house saying 'where did that little girl I used to play with go' and nobody would tell me. I have lived a lifetime searching for that little girl I once knew. So, I went to our aunt, the one who used to tell the stories about you. She told me everything. She is the one who told me what she saw when she walked into that horrible home. And she is the one who loved you enough to keep your life close to her. And I find you like this, here and now....and you are no longer a little girl, but you are not a woman either....I find you and I see all what has happened and happening still to you...and I don't understand any of it, I don't understand God....” he is talking to the floor still in prayer shape and I am begging to become part of the corner wall in this bathroom. I am relieved he is speaking, but his words are hurting my stomach physically, and the pain of all of this is too much. I want to fade away, run away and I can't. He continues as if this was his confessions....
“I found you six years ago, when they put you in prison....I followed it all back, your life...right to the child of five when they took you away from us. I know everything about you. I know what our family did to you...the lies they told to get you adopted by that family. I know what the new mom did to you...and I would cry for your life as if it were happening to me. I know about what men did to you, and your kids....none of us were there to help you. And even here, even here....still the demons pursued you...and I can't even catch a man who tries to murder you....rapes you....and...I feel you dying inside...I already know what you see in the mirror....” He is sobbing uncontrollably to his God, not to me. I feel the push of my stomach up my throat and recognize the tears fall down my face re- moisturizing the dried red. I slide down the wall to his level. I think, what does he want from me now? What can I give him for his absolution, and why can't I find my own? I am not vindicated at all by God. If I were....life would be kind, I would know the loving arms of another...I would not have to fear my belonging in this world as only a pawn. I am rocking myself and stringing thoughts misguided sorrow for him, now my own. All I ever wanted was to love...to be loved. To be loved so intensely that each day would notice my existence in the world and applaud my heart. Doctor gentle, my brother, crawls on hands and knees over to me and with his arms, pulls me to his chest. He rests his head upon mine, lovingly touching my torn up face with his hands and catches every tear. I, for the first time in ages, let myself fall in.
STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER...by The Beatles
Remember when...first love knocked shyly upon the door. I am remembered. Cast by a sun in a youthful position, he stood there. I smiled showing innocence and attraction. I walked with him hand in hand to no where in particular, leading us to grass where upon our bodies laid laughing. I remember the grass long, moist and oddly cold even with the hottest day of June. Nervous love finds the calm in each others eyes, to where the lips will meet. And I let him...he had pinned me down, with a boy man gaze staring deep into my eyes which felt like eternity...perhaps he was deciding how he would bring his lips down upon mine. And he did. My body felt of odd doings, strangeness inside me stirring for desire. I knew I wanted more. He had won me in a kiss, and I ached in all woman places for things I should not do. I was awake for the first time to what love feels like in every cell of your existence. What deliciousness was this in this world which comes so silently? What meaning is this which whispers and screams at the same time? Love...oh, how I ached for him to show me more, give me all...like a drug, I was so high because of him. In a moment of youth I tasted love, and never forgot the high I would always seek after...love is a my drug of choice...despite the coming down. And I always come down.
I felt like I had slept for days. I don't even remember how I got back in this bed. Somehow, I felt different. Tantalized. Twisted. Untormmented . For a moment, I thought I was young again and somewhere else. Like spring had rushed upon me somewhere in the night. I sat up, and looked around. No one was here, no one was watching me. There were fresh flowers on the night stand next to me. For the first time...I had a thought to how beautiful they smelled. And I was hungry. Odd to feel so normal for me. So odd, I questioned my mind as to if I was still asleep, perhaps dreaming this weird scenario. My hair was brushed and put up. My face felt clean. Was it always like this, or was I just noticing. The room was no longer dark, as the sun was peeking in, in small puzzles along the walls. I looked at my body, it was still with scars. I felt my head, there were four stitches sharply done on my forehead. I wanted to know what was going on here. I did not feel confused, drugged, or anything. Curiosity owned each thought. I managed to hold my gown as I slipped delicately out of my iron bar bed. I creeped over to the door, it was not locked. I stood there for what seemed like an hour before quietly twisting the knob, inching the door open and peeking out...wanting no one to see me. I saw lil' Mex crossing onto another hall and I saw feline doctor drinking coffee with a consort...two ants doing ant work. Strangely quiet....no crazies wandering these halls. I shut the door as silently as I opened it. I found my food plate in the corner and decided to see what it had to offer. Ham and cheese sandwich, strawberries, chips, and some soup...it must be around noon, I thought. I tackled the ham and cheese like it was my first meal ever, save the strawberries for a moment or two. Lil' Mex....it must be Sunday, because he just roaming the halls.
I have not talked to him since the escape, or he has not talked to me. I probably caused consequences upon him for my selfish act of disappearance at his expe
nse. And in this moment, I cannot seem to recall all the details of my own consequences that night. Soon, I will ask for him, and I don't know why I am thinking of this now. Clarity. Maybe. It seems I have forgotten something, but for the life of me, I cannot remember what it was.
BREATHE ME by Sia
Gnaw,gnaw, gnaw. The rats are at my gut. I am powerless. All my yesterdays clamped with sweat in my older hands. If I open them, the past will pour out and I will go down, down, down. Two mothers, both didn't want to be mine. Doctor gentle brother has told me so. My childhood had told me so. There is pain in being unwanted. Worse, there is pain behind human eyes witnessing daily reminders of unwanted. Complete rejection either through abuse or neglect. The constant gnawing of 'what did I do so wrong to be so unworthy of you?”. The chewing begins with the mothers and then throws it's appetite to the man wolves...the ones. The ones who say they are so in love with you, desire your heart, and cannot live without you. They promise everything....but it was their unconditional love I craved most. And then they leave. Each man of promise nothing but sickly bugs caught under my skin forever. In their lies, their faces. In their time, my years given to sacrifice. Meaning. I cannot get the bugs out. I cannot surrender to my God these wounds...because the words were let out of pious hearts, anxious mouths of men by profession of love. I have drowned my own sense of woman to be a shadow, so they could shine. I have done things no woman should ever do because I believed I should be fierce in my loyalty. I have proved my undying devotions a hundred times plus only to prove nothing. Prove...approve..disapprove...undone. Mothers and lovers, givers of life and takers of soul. I request to God they burn in hell for the daggers left for me. Not one can I afford to pull out. Still, I am. I am bleeding to death.