“Repeat. It all repeats and nothing can stop me.” A phonic prose poem.
“Turn.” Why? “Bend over.” Please, why me? My skin sheds like a snake. You’re not divine. Nothing seems to be healing. No bandages seem wide enough or strong enough. I see you. You can’t hide behind your stained glass windows. The hues you’ve created with your salt cannot stop me. Long sleeves won’t hide the signs. It is as visible on me as it is on you. Your hands are worn, yet immaculate like the carpenter you speak highly of. Good works? Of course.
It’s said; the shadows are agents of light. They reveal what most don’t want to see. Don’t fear the darkness that is behind you. I am wary of the darkness that glides towards me, shaped like the creature that steals Gilgamesh’s precious plant. To others, the darkness siphons itself and glides like a weightless cloud. It always stings as it comes down. Thick skin doesn’t equal concrete. The thrashes are acid rain and my body turns to limestone. I melt in your hands. Fighting will only make it worse. Fight it silently and wait it out. I can feel the difference. I can restructure this muddled mess. I think things will improve somehow as I lie awake at night thinking of you and all that you’ve done. Yet, you’ve treated me kindly in between each time of cruelty. For that, you have my utmost respect and gratitude. I understand you now. I can manipulate the shadows, too. I am enlightened. The fumes from the censer now soothe me. I taught myself to stop the cycle of pain within me. I learned your weaknesses. To calm my emotions and not go into a rage is the only way to be safe.
“He appears to be improving.” No I’m not, Doctor. “That is what we’ve hired you for.” Listen and read my mind mother. It’s not working. “But, I do have some concerns about his interest in priesthood. It’s such a mentally rigorous profession.” Yet, it is so enticing. “My son has had an interest in the clergy for nearly a decade. He has never channeled his anxiety more than when he’s in a house of worship.” Fear isn’t always visible. Control overcomes one’s history. It is hard to master the need for this love. The doctor tries to help. I understand that with a strong mind that weakness can be handled with time, but it is hard to resist.
In my hands sits a delicate fruit, not yet ripe, but I long to squeeze it. I yearn for the sweet tar that oozes from every crevasse of the berry. This unwarranted desire now seems plausible. It seems good, satisfying. Yet, it seems frustrating. These thoughts continue to grow in my head. My sweet moments turn sour, rotten. Turning over and tilling my thoughts make it worse. Creeping Charlie overcomes any resistance. It flourishes.
Petite footprints shine just for me. Their innocence ignites my view of the earth. The trees, the grass, the unblossomed flowers lay lined with a hysterical fire. This love is more dangerous than anything else. I fear the darkness within me. The small child cries, “Please, why me?” I can’t find what I used to be.
“Repeat. It all repeats and nothing can stop me.”