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Monday, December 22, 2014

I Feel So Sorry

Thinking about what terrible secrets he harbors...every woman he will ever be with will find out sooner or later, lambs to the heart's may be one year, ten years (highly doubtful...falling off the pedestal seems to happen very quickly; I was the tenacious fool, always hoping, never giving up)...but the secret will out.  It is embedded, a tattoo never to be erased.  I feel so for family: who lives in such isolation that there will be not one target? Never, the curse laid on before anyone knew. If you accepted it, truly tried to stake the vampire, would you for the sake of others? No, that is not you. You eat ease, take the secretive road. I think you like what you are.

I speak in the voice of the dybbuk, the one who knows.  You cannot call us all crazy. If the time comes, if some newly enlightened, grieving person comes to me, I will speak. I will show them your own words, unrepentant to the bitter end. I have no interest in your life if you choose the straight and narrow...but one false move, one anguished woman who turns to me, and the truth will out to her. Among ourselves, women do not believe we are crazy, no matter what men want to think.

I wish you could be the person I thought you were. If I had the power to bring him forth, to erase the abyss, I would.  But there is no salve for this kind of soul, and no rest ; who knows why they come into being, cracked like a china doll, veneered with deceptive surface light, every fracture revealing the dark.

Where do these people come from, to inhabit my life for a time, and yet never for a time, the scars permanent?  They are not scarred in this way, firebugs that they are: they move on to make a cicatrix of someone else's life.  To write this is to weep blood for a person I loved with all my heart: this must be love, because I stand at the abyss and cry for what is lost, the way a widow looks at photographs of the one who is gone, her voice echoing through infinite silence.

To love a person like this is to wear a brooch of thorns, always.  There is no going back, there is only the obisdian knife of this knowledge, and the secret that falls like a gulf between us.