insulted
by, Lisa Stratton
I
You broke into me.
Violator.
Theif.
Much like a dark, dirty, rotten cur that had roamed the streets so long,
That he was no longer suitable for human contact.
With your filfth,
your rot,
you dug your way in...
under my fence...
into my home...
my body...
my soul.
Full scale invasion.
Bloodshed.
Wailing.
Gnashing of teeth.
Without even a sense of mercy,
you stormed in,
ejaculated on my spirit,
took what was not yours to take,
killed the only part of me that could ever have been wonderful.
Not one murder;
a masacre.
In a single approach you filled me with a stench that has only stiffened across eons;
exponetially multiplying itself
across eternities.
That foulness weighed so vehemently upon my soul that...
that I was no longer able to breathe.
Relentless,
you returned night after night,
capturing my sense of comfort
(never to be released),
defiling my innocence,
slaughtering my hope.
You mutilated my body,
darkening my life,
forever leaving me a tormented child.
Which was worse?
The trembling, fearful anticipation?
Or the dreadful, nightmarish truth?
You arrived,
time
and time
again.
After you gathered more filth from the world that had forgotten me,
you brought it to me everynight.
I felt that splintering, ripping, painful nausea all over my small frail body as you made your deposits.
When there was nothing left but my agony
and tears,
you took them with you, too.
You left in their place the fullfilment of prophecy.
There just had to be one more weekend.
You could not leave horror enough alone.
You just had to come back.
Of all the Hellish nights, most would have, at least, perished with me.
This one was trying to out live me.
This one fucking "holy" day weekend tried to grow...
tried to become substance, form;
tangible, irrevocable, undeniable truth was preparing to spew forth.
Over my dead body!
I put the freeze on that by GOD!
(Not to honor god, but to spite him...
I ended it.)
The dirtiest trick of all.
It may out live me yet.
This was just to say that I...
And I mean this as vehemently as is possible...
I HATE you.
I am tired of re-living that helplessness while I sleep.
I would have killed you, but I didn't have the balls.
It wouldn't have erased the blood...
the tears...
the ugly juices...
nor ANY of the pain.
I suffer still.
I will continue to suffer if only to, one day, say it to your face...
I HATE YOU!!!
II
Does any one hear my cries?
Does any one realize that Time does not heal all wounds?
Does any one think that it is acceptable to refuse to forgive...
to think that to forget so much of one's self
is to cease existence?
Does any one understand that there comes a point when "healing"
is
no longer possible?
Will someone listen?...
Not to feel...
Not to understand...
No pity...
No sympathy...
Leave your compassion somewhere else.
Don't dump it on me.
You can't fix it!
You can't "love" it away!
It angers me when you try,
but I want you to try harder!
Why can't I just break down completely?
Just crumble...
to rubble...
to dust...
to ashes...
to oblivion.
Can I ever rise like the Pheonix,
which resides (somewhere) with my spirit
if I don't allow the flames to consume me?
I must continually burn,
never to burn away,
never to fly again.
Maybe, I just need a hug.
DON'T touch me!
Do NOT see
my
pain.
III
It's soothing, really.
Make it a point to dredge up your deepest pains.
I'll keep it all with me.
Refuse to fear it.
Think about it every single day.
First there is that total loss of emotion,
sensation,
sense of time,
desire to live,
desire to die.
Numb.
That's the place that lets me go so deeply into my own nurosis, that
healing
becomes irrelevant.
Those dark caverns of shame
and secrecy
still conceal themselves.
I may not have seen all that lies there.
That doesn't mean that I have not
thouroughly explored their depths.
Where I once feared my tainted,
lifeless,
helpless,
memories,
I now cherish them.
They are just dark enough to conceal me;
protect me from
the world
that put me there to begin with.
I am comforted by my own screams and cries
as they echo through the years gone by.
That agony means that I
will
never
forget.
I am who I am
because of who and what I could not be.
The mystery of me
is what should always be.
There is no resolve like subission to the past.
I am
by far
the strongest you'll ever see.
Only I can brave my cave.
This wasn't for you anyway.
You will always be clueless.
Return to my main page.
� 2001 Lisa Stratton All rights reserved.