My memory of you remains vivid..
Time is stitching my wounds loosely..
In my heart, your knife is still fitted..
On my pieces, you danced carelessly..
I dream of eradicating your apparition..
Of a spell to be reborn..
For disposal has become an ambition..
When sanity has been torn..
Photo by Oleg Oprisco Fine Art
I want to be a woman that knows fear when she sees it and would still choose to conquer it.
A woman with the audacity of a compulsive gambler and a heart of a lion.
One that does not wear an armour in the face of unpredictability, but rather, sways her sword.
Artwork by Ana Teresa Barboza
For a moment, I am asunder, shattered and stuck in interludes from reality. Every time, every single time it happens, I loath myself for being so vulnerable, so frail and so .. Nude. I opened up again? Ignoramus to the virile cruelty again? Me who mocks the alleged putative sincerity of man?!
Frankly, I feel obliged to tell you how it feels, sleeping on a tear bathed pillow with the inconsistent beat of a mangled heart, GUILT-FREE. I may not be well now, neither mentally nor physically. But my conscience remains an unspekeled glass, contrary to yours. I have never anchored a heart. My pillow is far more comfortable than yours. My heart bleeds tears through my eyes but your mind, it bleeds suppressed culpability through your conscience. Unfortunately for you, your conscience is ventless. Guilt can only ooze out of your pores, consequently, you reek shame.
It’s astonishing you are still capable of looking me in the eyes as you step on the same floor my feet walked on. My very own feet that carried me up as I headed to the drawer of tear jars and wiped blotches of your poison from my soul. The extent of your cruelty does not cease to amaze me. In fact, it’s impressive and astounding how you find sitting on the wreck of my broken pieces.. Okay. How ever, you’re still transparent to me. I’m not oblivious of your fearful eyes every time you turn your gaze away. I see fear when your feet involuntarily change course only by glimpse of my approaching shadow. Fear of what you ask? Fear of being unforgiven, of having my wounds haunting your dreams. Fear of my unaveging soul awakening a tremendously vindictive God.
That mask of valour you wear, it’s just a matter of time it crumbles down..I know my silence is a curse to you..