Monday, September 26, 2011

One One Two Eight

CONDEMED the wurd screamed across the paper taped to the window, and across her aching heart
ABANDONED, it was declared. By the powers that be in the STATE. And the powerless being in her mind.
One one two eight they were all too late
Memories confused with the scenery backsplashed in the night terrors. Was it this place? Was this her reality?
Night after night screaming into her pillow. Crying until the death rattle shakes took their hold.
Knowing then that there was more to life ~ knowing now that there is nothing that she can let go from the past.
Staring at the vacant dilapidated structure. She breathed in the evil that clung to the air, it filled her lungs with
despair.
It wasn’t what it always was, she tried to convince herself for years. This place is ~ was ~ emptiness filled with hate. Rage.
But now it just stood empty.
Warped time in the mind, remembering what she forgot to hide. Here. HERE?

It can’t be undone it can’t be undone it can’t be undone
She isn’t broken anymore.
Little grrl trapped inside, the door won’t open. Mass of tangled red curls fall in her eyes. She can’t reach the handle, it’s a million miles away. Terror filled shrieks, pleas for help go unheeded.
Now then and always.
Balled in the corner, swimming down further into herself. Tiny little angel, running from the eight legged demons. They swarm from the ceiling floor walls tub sink window under the crack in the door.
And she’s alone, with herself. Disassociate. The scary can’t get her if she’s
Not
By
Herself.

Now she’s with herself. Staring at the boarded up windows. Cracked porch. Still. Weeds in the yard reaching up to the sky. Still. Trash littering every inch of dirt. Still. And the gate is broken. Still

And her heart cries for the little grrl that dies there. Still.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Vanilla Grrl With the Sleeve Tattoo

She sits across from me in her NOTLD shirt. And flowy skirt. And flip flops. And glasses. No makeup to hide the crows feet. Laugh/cry lines unabashedly visible.
No manicure. Or pedicure.
Not much intention to conversate either, it would seem.
Litany of questions, barrage of forced laughter. She looks the part. Maybe she’s a stand in?
Talk turns voices swirl. Clatter of utensils against the shabby chic dishes. The thai place was my idea.
Hot waitresses.
She continues to whisper her one wurd responses as I probe. Ever vigilant to find common ground.
Beyond the obvious there is often nothing.
So it is as the revelation occurs. Me, morally superior in such an authentic way that I do not even find myself ashamed at the thing.
Lies, deceit, no remorse, no conscience. Not even so much as an excuse. It simply is. To her. And to them.
To me it is more. Indignity on their behalf breaks in me like a strong tidal wave. Ripped from the bottom of my female soul DEMANDING that she feel the pure wrong of her actions.
To treat them as such, as if they were not even! Inconsequential! This, this, this ~ this is more than mere discord. In this we are separate.
In this, the vanilla grrl with the sleeve tattoo is a world apart from what I know and hold true to be self evident.
She picks up the tab and I let her. I smile at the dreadlocked waitress with the snake bites. I wonder if she’s 21?
Or faithful.