Purge
The radio in the other room spoke to her like the voice of God.
Never
made it as a wise man
I
couldn’t cut it as a poor man stealin’
Tired of livin’ like a blind man
Sick
of sight without a sense of feeling
She angrily dashed away her tears with the heel of her hair, the other tangled into knotted strands of her hair. Why did it always have to be this way? Why couldn’t things just work out the way they were supposed to for once? Why did every single thing that could go wrong have to wrong—several times—before anything could be resolved?
She felt utterly useless, and sick. She tried so hard to help everyone out, to really go out of her way and be considerate, but people kept insisting on seeing her as a pissed off cynical bitch. She hated seeing people in pain, and part of her kept thinking that she could save everyone. She knew it was impossible, but this knowledge did not keep her from trying to do it anyway. It was exhausting work.
Cosmic debt. She worked so hard, sweated blood and tears, and never seemed to accomplish anything. If anything, people seemed to expect more from her while still maintaining a low opinion of her. The universe demanded more from her. She shoulders were loaded down and still she trudged on, not minding her breaking back, not minding anything. There was always a sacrifice; so what if it was her?
Still, everything she did was not enough to make up for past transgressions. No matter how much she gave, what she did, it was never enough. She was not worth enough, and besides, some things can’t be fixed like that.
This
is how you remind me
This is how you remind me of what I really am
She hated that she could do nothing, and so kept trying. She’d give until her fingers were bones and her spirit was in tatters. She hated being reminded of her helplessness.
It’s
not like you to say, I was waiting on a different story
This
time I’m mistaken for handing you a heart worth breaking
These
five words scream in my head, “Are we havin’ fun yet?”
Fun, fun, fun! She snarled and twisted her hands viciously in her hair to bring her out of her mind, back to reality, back to the simple state of being. Yeah, she had to admit that she was having a lot of fun. And besides, she had put herself into her position deliberately and repeatedly. She had no room to talk.
(The inscription on the back of one of her sketches read: “Dream-dancer, doeth thou love thy suffering so much that thou wouldst accept it—nay, welcome it—willingly and with such joy?”)
It hurt too, though, hurt like hell. She wondered if she was making a mistake. She wondered if she was wrong. She wondered what the point of this whole sordid affair was. She wondered if there even was a point.
She’d thought about ending it all. This was just another bout useless generosity and grace, and no one ever appreciated that. Every time she did something special for someone (secret and dark as dark silk sheets rubbing on naked flesh), she ended up wrecking something, tearing, ripping, crashing, ruining. The whole mess fell heavily upon her head like divine retribution. She was beginning to get a firm grip of the old adage that “the road to hell is paved with good intentions”. The more pure and honest her intentions, the worse it all seemed to get.
It’s
not like I didn’t know that
I
said I love you and I swear I still do
And
it must have been so bad
‘Cause
livin’ with me must’ve damned near killed you
No, she was sure she’d never said that; she was not that much of a fool to fling herself that whole-heartedly into trouble, and trouble she knew it was. Still, it hung enticingly in her mind, like the plumpest, firmest crimson apple, or a bunch of the most succulent, thumbnail-sized grapes, tempting her. She paced beneath it and stared and wondered what to do. It’s not that she was hungry, or even needed it precisely, but…
It was wrong. She knew she should even think about it. It was evil. It would kill her. It would rip the living breath from her heart.
This
is how you remind me of what I really am
This
is how you remind me of what I really am
She curled into a tight fetal ball, her body mass dragging the blankets into a soft, warm nest. She was not a whore. She wasn’t. She wasn’t very sure of this anymore though; she’d lost her focus on what she really was and who she was and what she was doing, and now everything seemed questionable. She knew in some calm, peaceful place in her soul that the problem was completely different, that she was perhaps too generous and beautiful… but it was so hard to remember that. She needed to be reminded sometimes. She needed to hear that she was lovely, that she didn’t have to keep struggling with her burdens, that she was doing the right thing.
She
told everyone else that; was she asking for too much to have someone return the
favor?
* Lyrics from Nickleback’s “How You Remind
Me”.