stardustmite
It's not fair that any one person should have such an advantage over the other.
'Leverage' he calls it.
I call it blackmail.
He holds it over my head, near the tip of my nose like a carrot.
I remember a song lyric from my youth, a distant memory of Bono hissing, "Gimme what I want, and no one gets hurt."
Except in this situation, either way I get hurt.
The question is who I take along with me.
They try to make you into something you're not. They try to instil within you that which you already know isn't true. They hold on to your jaw and force feed you all that they want you to believe. They erase your mind, they morph your soul. At first you try to resist, but after a while, you just get tired and give in. Because lying is easier that being true to yourself.
There are knocks at the door that have people gasping and springing out of their seats to see what exactly is going on. Some knocks bring good news. Some bring bad. Some knocks will get your husband arrested hours after he has finally been released from prison in Paris. These knocks will cause tears and heartbreaks, but also resolutions in the end.
They trap me. I don't have to see the harnesses they put upon me, I feel them. Is that not enough? My feeling of claustrophobia and fear and my knowledge of this entrapping world?
Is that not enough for you to believe me?
I love roller coasters. They move. That is motion, right? I love being surprised and scared and ecstatic at the same time.
But then in real life, change scares me. Moving from one place to another, changing from one state of mind to another, all that motion terrifies me.
Why?
I get chills every time I listen to that damn song. There is nothing sweet or pure about it. It's gritty and dark and primal and pulsing, nothing like the perky person I am everyday. But that song is magical, and it makes me someone totally different. Someone who sits on a balcony at two am with a cigarette in one hand, and an iPod in the other with the volume turned up as high as it can go.
Why does everything have to be so hard. It's like, he does it on purpose. He is intentionally perfect just do that I can know exactly what I don't have. This is beyond a hassle, beyond annoying. There are no words for this.
Residue. It is what is left behind. All is done now, the house sleeps. The residue remains. The residue sobs quiet tears and waits to be brushed away in a fit of disgust. The residue cries. The unwanted. The outsider.
She couldn't breathe. Well, she could breathe, but just barely.
It had all happened so fast. She was walking home after an exhausting day when she had been grabbed. A hand covered her mouth and nose and she was shoved into the trunk of the nondescript car parked nearby.
What would happen now?
Why do we care so much about what people think? Why are we obsessed with what they would rate us in their minds. We are not movies or restaurants or anything of the sort. We are people whose beauty should not be defined by a magazine and whose intelligence should not be defined by an IQ test.
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writing since 2012 · 22 entries · 22 days shown up
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