i live with arsonists at my doorstep, with kidnappers prowling for their next victim. I stare out of my window, peeking through the curtains, as i wonder who might be staring at me, watching each other, with scary eagle eyes.
he who conducts a symphonic anarchy, and clenches us within his fist. he who orchestrates fear and sacks the city. i am tired. i look at it all through heavy lidded eyes, i too am falling under this spell.
us all, who are apathetic, and worry over mindless matters. the next paychecque, the best restaurant, the last bottle of wine. and we forget that the ground still shakes and the world moves for reasons we cannot define.
and we live fearfully and fearlessly simultaneously, all for the wrong things, crying over the wrong bottles of spilt milk. barking up the wrong trees, over and over again.
i don't believe crystal balls exist. the next car crash, earthquake or death stat, we cannot predict. we are not all powerful. and here we are, burning each other alive... burying each other alive...
tomorrow will be better. i have His in my faith. it is all i/we have.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Scent/Alcohol
He was harsh that night, my father, when he came home bad-tempered and eager to lash out at any poor, unsuspecting soul. Of course, I wasn’t unsuspecting, but you get the idea.
The smell of alcohol was so strong it became repugnant. As impossible as it sounds, all my senses were repulsed by him, the ugly stench of vodka-drenched breath mixed together with his expensive cigarettes, decorated with the scent of a stranger’s perfume. The sight of him corroded my eyes and I shivered at the sight of something that was to me, utterly inhumane.
When he staggered around in his drunken manner around our expansive living room, I shied away, incensed yet fascinated by the mannerisms of a man who used to sing me fairytales and Cinderella stories. The same man who promised to find me my Prince Charming and be my guarantor for eternal happiness.
He slapped my mother for the first time that night.
My tender mother, in her unconditional faithfulness and loyalty, had attempted to haul him up to their room upon her scant frame. I suspected that she had failed terribly in her attempt to love him, but she was still faithful.
He slapped her, calling her inadequate in many things. Being thirteen at that time, I knew that he was referring to her underperformance in bed, and I watched her shrivel away under his accusing stare and contemptuous voice. And an appalling heavy hand that struck her mercilessly across her left cheek.
I swore never to be like my mother: meek, weak and domesticated.
There are unsigned divorce papers lying on my desk right now. What can I say? I am a proactive person. All it took was one slap from Edward for me to call a lawyer’s office immediately the next morning, and so two weeks later, the official documents have been sent to me.
My charismatic, handsome and loving husband of two years, Edward, undeniably has many charming traits. Blatant alcoholism is not one of them.
Why did it take me three years then, since I swore never to be like my mother?
Drunkard as he is, Edward never pushed my limits. He would wake up the next day with an excrutiating hangover, yet still be a lovely husband, flawed, but never imperfect.
Unfortunately, that night, when he came home drunk and struck me across the left cheek with the force of a stranger who could not have loved me, I decided to leave him. I realized twenty years ago that Prince Charmings do not exist.
He smelt exactly like my father, alcohol, cigarettes and the smell of sluts clinging onto him. I could no longer live with him, I am not as noble as my mother, who tolerated an abusive husband’s waywardness with the force of a general.
And I remembered my father’s ugliness, the way Edward’s alcohol-stained breath and words smelt so much like him. The slap across a cheek with a hand that had forgotten to love.
So now, I too must forget to love, and it will be easy, since all I remember about my husband is his alcohol and heavy hand.
There are always chasms in life, the way my mother accepted her fate while I chose mine. Love has not been kind to us.
The smell of alcohol was so strong it became repugnant. As impossible as it sounds, all my senses were repulsed by him, the ugly stench of vodka-drenched breath mixed together with his expensive cigarettes, decorated with the scent of a stranger’s perfume. The sight of him corroded my eyes and I shivered at the sight of something that was to me, utterly inhumane.
When he staggered around in his drunken manner around our expansive living room, I shied away, incensed yet fascinated by the mannerisms of a man who used to sing me fairytales and Cinderella stories. The same man who promised to find me my Prince Charming and be my guarantor for eternal happiness.
He slapped my mother for the first time that night.
My tender mother, in her unconditional faithfulness and loyalty, had attempted to haul him up to their room upon her scant frame. I suspected that she had failed terribly in her attempt to love him, but she was still faithful.
He slapped her, calling her inadequate in many things. Being thirteen at that time, I knew that he was referring to her underperformance in bed, and I watched her shrivel away under his accusing stare and contemptuous voice. And an appalling heavy hand that struck her mercilessly across her left cheek.
I swore never to be like my mother: meek, weak and domesticated.
There are unsigned divorce papers lying on my desk right now. What can I say? I am a proactive person. All it took was one slap from Edward for me to call a lawyer’s office immediately the next morning, and so two weeks later, the official documents have been sent to me.
My charismatic, handsome and loving husband of two years, Edward, undeniably has many charming traits. Blatant alcoholism is not one of them.
Why did it take me three years then, since I swore never to be like my mother?
Drunkard as he is, Edward never pushed my limits. He would wake up the next day with an excrutiating hangover, yet still be a lovely husband, flawed, but never imperfect.
Unfortunately, that night, when he came home drunk and struck me across the left cheek with the force of a stranger who could not have loved me, I decided to leave him. I realized twenty years ago that Prince Charmings do not exist.
He smelt exactly like my father, alcohol, cigarettes and the smell of sluts clinging onto him. I could no longer live with him, I am not as noble as my mother, who tolerated an abusive husband’s waywardness with the force of a general.
And I remembered my father’s ugliness, the way Edward’s alcohol-stained breath and words smelt so much like him. The slap across a cheek with a hand that had forgotten to love.
So now, I too must forget to love, and it will be easy, since all I remember about my husband is his alcohol and heavy hand.
There are always chasms in life, the way my mother accepted her fate while I chose mine. Love has not been kind to us.
disease
i cry without tears, sing with no voice, live without a melody, learn to walk all over again on my own, dream but there's no ambition, write for you to read in between the lines, look for hands that brush past me for warmth.
loneliness is an extremely affecting disease.
loneliness is an extremely affecting disease.
Gloss
You could be glossing over it all, and I wonder what you think underneath the lashes. And how your eyes dart and move when you think nobody's looking.
What stirs inside you, when you appear simple-minded under it all. The sweet-smiling one, while I, sourface, bears the brunt.
What stirs inside you, when you appear simple-minded under it all. The sweet-smiling one, while I, sourface, bears the brunt.
Monday, August 4, 2008
killing me softly
and i heard the lovely sounds of his saxophone.
and then the clarinets melded softly into the background,
before her skilled fingers massaged notes out of the
old trumpet.
and wood struck the snare softly
with the strongest precision an amateur could muster,
racing with the speed of the conductor's baton.
the flutes fly up to take their place
piercing through the gently throbbing
sounds of the tuba.
she who coaxes a singing voice of her french horn
and she who glides the words that speak
even as they struggle out of the trombone.
i watch as the baton falls,
and my eyes
falling softly too
killing me softly too....
and then the clarinets melded softly into the background,
before her skilled fingers massaged notes out of the
old trumpet.
and wood struck the snare softly
with the strongest precision an amateur could muster,
racing with the speed of the conductor's baton.
the flutes fly up to take their place
piercing through the gently throbbing
sounds of the tuba.
she who coaxes a singing voice of her french horn
and she who glides the words that speak
even as they struggle out of the trombone.
i watch as the baton falls,
and my eyes
falling softly too
killing me softly too....
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