No one told me...

The lessons I have learnt in my life have been myriad; some have been simple, others have been profound, some difficult, and others simply requiring a nod of the head before moving on. The hardest lessons were always the ones I was not prepared to learn. The ones that came without warning. Sailors, they say, keep close watch on the sky because she will tell them everything they need to know to keep themselves afloat. A story I read a long time ago says that the skies and the winds over land are inconsistent, shifting, and do not give us the warning that sailors have learnt, and passed on through the centuries.

Sometimes I feel like my gatekeeping tasks have me locked in a tower, watching the sky, but I don't know what I'm looking for. Is that cloud formation dark because the sun is going down? Is it shifting to the east or to the south? I get distracted by the lightning and the pageantry of the moon, and by the time the storm hits, I haven't rung any bells, I haven't sounded the alarms, and the air raid sirens are silent. What good am I, as a gatekeeper, then? What good am I as a sentinel? My watch began without instruction, and continues without guidance. I do not have the knowledge and skills passed down from generations past. I have not the preparation or the instincts to know when to raise the alarm. How, then, am I to succeed?

Un-made

Today was meant to be
An Anniversary.

I took what I wanted

While I walked
In that terrible Valley

Two years ago.
I said, Yes,

In a place
where the only
thing I heard was
No.

But today is not joyful.
There is nothing to celebrate.
Today
Is a day
Of mourning.
A day for grief.

I pierced my skin.
I cut off my hair.
I seek to drown
In smoke and vapor.

Today I allow the part of me that said Yes to die.

I do not walk the same barren path
That lay before me two years syne.

This is a new waste,

Here after climbing
The Mountains of Maybe
And, foolishly,
Keeping my sights

On the summit,

Tumbling headlong into
The Desert of Never.

I want to turn my back on this journey

That has tried me
Judged me,
And found me lacking.

But to leave,
I must bury
The remains of my heart
At the base of the Tree

That marks the entrance

To Beyond.

The girl with the generous heart

Once upon a time there was a girl with a very generous heart. She was not very pretty, nor was she very lovable, but she was clever and loyal. However, she was not wise. And so she gave her heart away too often and foolishly.

One day the girl met a bird. The bird was very pretty, but he had a crooked wing and could not fly. The girl with the generous heart took the bird in and fed him and protected him from the things that prey on the weak and the lame.

The girl kept the bird near her, sharing everything she had. Many people asked the girl why she cared for a bird that could not fly, and the girl with the generous heart always responded the same way: ‘This bird is my friend. Yes, he cannot fly, so I protect him. His friendship is more than enough repayment for the little things I share.’ The girl with the generous heart worked hard, making sure that there was always enough so that the bird with the crooked wing was well cared for and happy.

The girl saved every penny she made and eventually she had enough to buy the bird a new wing. She went to a shop where she could purchase a new wing, and she picked out one that was beautiful, like the bird who was her friend. The new wing was very expensive, but the girl with the generous heart did not hesitate to buy it. It was perfect and she was so excited to get home to show the bird his new wing.

However, when the girl with the generous heart got home and showed the bird what she bought, the bird with the crooked wing flew into a rage. He said terrible, hurtful things to the girl with the generous heart. The bird with the crooked wing accused the girl of secretly hating him, of being ashamed of him, and of wanting a new friend, because the only reason to give the bird a new wing would be so he could fly away. The bird said that the girl with the generous heart must not really love him, and that she must think he is not good enough to love with his crooked wing. He said that if she really loved him she would accept his crooked wing and that the new wing she bought for him was just a way of saying that he would only be lovable if he were not broken.

The girl with the generous heart did not know what to do; she had only wanted to give her friend a gift, a beautiful gift that would make him happy. She left the new wing on the table near where the bird was perched in the corner, glaring at her, and she left the house. She hid for a time in the woods and she cried. When she could cry no more, and the sun was starting to set, the girl went back to the house.

The bird with the crooked wing was gone. As was the new wing the girl had bought for him. There was no note, no explanation. The girl with the generous heart would never see the bird again. But she could not forget all the terrible things the bird had said to her.

The girl with the generous heart was clever enough to know that it was her heart that had gotten her into this trouble. And so the next day, the girl with the generous heart went deep into the woods. She took her heart from her chest and buried it at the foot of a tree.

Ever since that day, the girl no longer had a generous heart. She became reclusive and lonesome, and she always remembered what the bird had said to her. She never looked for the tree where she buried her heart, and she lived a long and lonely life, her one small comfort the knowledge that she could never be so foolish again as to give away her heart where it would not be reciprocated.

Un-love

‘I love you – have always loved

you,’ he whispered softly into my

ear, his breath against my neck

hot and sticky, like his words, while unseen

hands like razors clawed at me,

caught at my clothes, severing

seams and slicing through layers

of fabric to slide smoothly into

my skin.  ‘I love you – can’t you see?’ he

asked as fingers curled around cut and

bloody flesh to tear strips of me

from me.  He stripped me bare, cut away

all that protected me, and took what he

saw and shattered it with vitriol.

‘This thing we have is good, so good,’

he chanted while my blood ran down

his clutching claws, pooling and

clotting in the divots in my rent

flesh.  ‘So good,’ he panted as he sucked

my essence out through my mouth, opened

in a silent scream; ‘So good,’ he breathed

as I curled in on myself, trying just

to disappear; ‘So good,’ he moaned as I lay

limp and lifeless.  He did not see the husk

he left behind, but keeps returning to it

and sees only the vibrant thing it once

was – the thing destroyed by his love.

And he wonders, How can I still not

love him back?

10/01/2011

The price of broken promises

‘I love you – have always loved

          you,’ he said, whispering, whispering

     into the soft pink shell of my ear.

But as the words touched the delicate drum

               they shattered into a thousand tiny

          fragments of glass and tickled and cut

     at the soft flesh against which they rubbed.

So I tilted my head, questioningly

               at him.  And as my head tilted

         broken promises came tumbling

     out of my ear, silvery and shining

red with blood.

10/01/2011

Philosophy digression

I never loved you.
That is what you assume.
That is what you will say.
I did not return your cloying sentiment
     Couched in tired language
     Choking me with cliches.

I left: a fact undeniable.
Not that I seek to deny it.  I know
I did.
          Deliberately.
                                 With forethought.
                                                                  And relief.

I took your philosophy of taking
Whatever makes you happy
And made it my own
     By rejecting
                           what made me
                                                      unhappy.

But how dare I decide
                                      what made me unhappy
                                                                                 was you?

28.11.10