Medicinal Blisters

I am a lot of things. I am broken inside, appear whole on the outside. I am whole inside, appear broken on the outside. I bruise easily. Your hurtful words fall off my hardened skin and you can never bruise me. I hide quickly in the face of conflict. I sharpen my battle tools when you roll your arguments towards me. I shy away from all your challenges. I spend nights tangled in the torturing beauty of creation. Then bad writing, misplaced rhythms and silly juxtapositions: words of inertia surface. To sadden me. To question my every moment offered to the night and its mesmerizing pull. Taunted and maimed, somehow lost, not entirely truthful or found. There are times when it feels right to pass the invitation. There are other times when regret gets the better of me. I allow all these feelings to bulldoze over me, to cover every hidden part of my soul. To come and conquer, to make better, to fully occupy the barren sights of my malleable spirit.

Motionless. The cruel breeze of these steel daggers, a loud swish, then all disappears. The heavy fight postponed, numbed by disbelief and hurt by the anger projected. Sometimes this is how I feel. I lie still so that no dust cloud can cover my judgement. I lie alone, forgotten. I lie determined to survive the passing cyclones of dishonesty. Is this the stone from which all other stones have been made? Throw it at me if you think my words are untrue. I will take the beating, I will surrender humbly. No words of mine have the power of persuasion: that is why. They are just words used at my own pleasure, with no weight or maturity. That is why. Their curly bodies, my vain efforts, together, in unison, should be flogged, publicly ridiculed, taught a lesson. This is why.

I am lot of things that the eyes cannot see. I brush against your fears and come out laughing. I medicate my sore soul with the words I set free. I twist your arm and pull magic tricks. You start to cry, feel uncomfortable, search within, feel sorry for me. For me, the writer, the person you do not know. Me, the girl you thought you had figured out, down to a tee. You read of darkness, but I seek and find deliverance. My kindness mixes so profoundly with cruelty, creates a homogenous blend, no borders, no start or end, just a vast substance which engulfs you from the first letter to the last. Sprinkle the page with love and I have lost you for good. At the end of each sentence I surface then dive back into the unknown to search the wreckage that has been left, or built, over the years. I dissemble it piece by piece, life then builds it back bit by bit.

I have a heart that is blistering. The pain sometimes quietens its healthy, vivacious beat. My heart grows tired at times, sighs lonely, wishes for the fights to be less frequent, less violent. This heart has its dark, has its pain, has its void where once love lived. This heart never goes mute. A faint murmur, a distant thump, a weak but determined sound and the glorious relief. There is time to continue. Comes the empty page and with each stroke of a new letter, the beats grow louder. The four corners of hurt become blunt, unable to cause further damage. Except for these blisters. They appear to ease the friction but remain painful reminders after the imminent danger has passed.

I give my heart to you. I give these words to you. I give my dark to you. I stand in shame for this time again I have not accomplished that, which I had set out to do. You leave these words feeling sorry for me. I leave with another blister burst. Once again, I am forced to beg you to next time again, read on.