crashedtimemachine
The hate in their eyes is real, and that's what matters. Not politics.
They're out for blood, and it doesn't really matter who is running for what office -- only that this mob is given an outlet for the generational hate they harbor. They've nurtured it in their goings and comings, in their religious transactions, in the pinched, stiff way they interact with "those people" in their daily lives. And now someone is offering them validation, proof that they're not wrong to be scared, angry, and defensive.
in those places where you once felt safe -- where you believed that safety is inherently enshrined into the very walls that surround you -- those are the places you now find only fear.
you can't take back the terrible things that happened. how can you? you can't even breathe.
when you step through those doors, you travel through time. you're right back there; back where it all began. nothing has changed.
not the house.
not you.
your bottom lip trembles exactly the same and you gasp softly like a fish laid bare on torturous land.
there is nothing here for you but pain and fear and a small child hiding inside your heart, wrapping in around herself, closing her eyes against the already too dark interior.
so you step back. you about-face and walk away and pretend you were never there.
you pretend so hard until you believe it. until it's the truth, because pretending is what you're good at.
i used to think i was clever
then i met you
and nothing made sense anymore
(and everything made sense finally)
and i began to value my heart
(just as much as my mind)
I tried to resist the pull--
the tide of your smile--
the physics of attraction.
But why should I resist happiness?
I might as well live without air.
I might as well die.
"You can always go home,"
they say.
When it doesn't matter.
When you don't require that kind of reassurance.
When everything is okay.
It's a promises that's always withdrawn as soon as it's needed.
Sweat rolls down between my shoulder blades and it tingles, but I don't dare to move. If I move even one inch, the truth will reveal itself and I'll have to face it. And there is nothing that can force me to do something like that.
Across the room, my brother reclines in the bathtub and I swear I hear him sigh at my dilemma.
Except he can't, can he? Sigh anymore, I mean?
And I try to forget that thought as soon as I have it because it's just a disguise for the truth I can't accept.
Sneaky. The truth. And persistent.
My brother says I'm being stubborn and I laugh a little. The razor blade he's dropped on the floor glints a little and distracts me for what seems like ages. (Shiny.)
Then, our parents arrive and they ruin everything by yelling words that sound like truth.
My brother asks why I'm crying and I'm not sure how to answer, but I know it's all his fault.
This was where we left the flowers...
And this was where the candle stood in its little glass, as if such a small, thin shield could protect it. We were fools.
Over there were the thin sticks of incense, and here had been the two pennies left by our great-grandmother and now...
Now.
Now it was all gone.
Well, not quite. To be fair, everything was still there.
And there.
And over there.
And under our feet.
And in piles here and here.
There were several disturbed graves nearby. We should count ourselves lucky, they told us. We could replace flowers and candles and incense and pennies. No one had dug at the grave, torn up the soil, defiled the body (the body...?).
Somehow, we didn't feel lucky at all.
Our mother's grave was too sacred. The attack, too personal, despite the other graves meant to throw us off the scent.
We knew exactly who was behind it.
And (we were sure) they knew that we knew.
[tbc]
Broken glass and sawdust and cracked porcelain.
The pendulum in a clock frozen mid-swing.
Pastel printed fabrics stained and tattered.
The scent of dust and ash and death cling to everything.
Your lips are still touching mine as we stumble into the hall. We're kissing and giggling and bouncing off the walls like a pair of magnetic pinballs and for some reason we both find this ridiculously hilarious.
When we stumble through the bedroom door, we discard our clothes in the span of a few trip-steps toward the bed. Then, we lose our minds to the drag of nails across flesh and the resonance of our hearts beating in tandem.
We've been waiting all day for this. We went so far as to plan a date and actually go on it, believing somehow that it was required to justify the speed at which we'd fallen (in love) into bed together.
And it was definitely worth the wait ...
Afterwards, when the room is quiet and still, I trace the scars across your chest with my fingertips and ask lazy questions --
"Did it hurt?"
"Don't you miss your breasts?"
"Do you regret it?"
And you punctuate each answer with a gentle kiss and a smile. With my curiosity is sated, I hmmm softly and snuggle into your shoulder and listen to you breathe until it lulls me to sleep.
i didn't mean to let you in.
however.
it is a mistake i am willing to make again and again
if it means that you are here with me - an unexpected companion standing guard along the walls i've labored years to build.
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