Have you found a way to leave everything that you call your ground- your ground of anger, of rusting armour of indifference, of the trauma the heartless giants planted in your heart, the compass that shows all the wrong directions and always takes you to the nearest cliff, again and again. Have you found a way to be better, to live better? I haven’t yet.
Yesterday I listened to a stranger talk for hours about how it can be done, how it will end when we want it to. It made me wonder if maybe we are not yet ready for this groundless life. Maybe that is our only issue.
All that can save us is so temporary, so transient. Yet the thing that ruins us, is ours to keep- not like the sun, but like the demon that needs our skin to live. I wonder if we just need to be needed that badly. Is that why we choose to cry than to change? Is that why we choose to hold onto the wave that is drowning us- just because it is here, because it is ours till it kills us. Among many other things I also wonder what made us like this. To be honest I am afraid to know.
a broken end with a light (a lighter duller than me) touches me. someone says the magic words, the loathsome words that make me the old alice. i am made to leave the seat, the home, the dream, the rights that are too big for me. they leave me a tiny suitcases filled with fancy dresses made of used socks and handkerchiefs. they are cute, they are kind, they have read their fairy tales right. i have never read the right books, so i find myself unable to thank them or kiss their hands. thumblina says my new belongings in glitter i do not know what this name means or the fate that the owner of this name is meant to find but i have heard it is better than being an alice. (i liked being alice more i liked a story written for my sake.) as i walk into the new forest, towards hopefully my last story or at least a story i can make my own for once, i can’t help but think of all the laughing men, now laughing giants fixing my home to their liking. i can’t help but be a bit bitter looking at my hands that can only build for people like them.
The tree I grew on,
the frozen giant I wrapped myself around
has lost its strength, its life
to keep someone like me alive.
Can I say it has given up its life for me
when I am the one that stuck to it first,
when I am the one that steals what I cannot create.
Do I have to take the burden, the responsibility
for trying to fill in these needs
that were put in me
without giving me means to fulfill them?
Do I need to have these feelings of guilt?
Do I need to feel sad
for just wanting to live?
The sun rises on my worries once again,
and life of one more day
has been given to what I must strangle.
Does it have to be like this?
It would have been easier
if I was the one who was wronged
or if I was ignorant of what I cause.
I looked up at the confused giants
and puzzled at their ugly voices
and deformed faces,
how they hold onto stones and branches
how they hold onto papers,
and threw each other off cliffs.
But what made me sadder was
that no one who was thrown off those cliffs ever died.
They just keep coming back
looking a bit different, speaking more funnier
and acting more mean
and throwing each others down again.
No one ever died here.
Everyone lived and everyone wanted all this to end
but no one wished it more than me.
I was made to believe that the little blood I have in me
is their doing, is their gift.
I wonder how much time it would take
to empty myself from the traces of this violence
and memories of people I grew up calling my family.