Leave Something for the Archaeologists
Bubastis
2003-05-17 4:30 pm
Step Into My Parlor
To those not in the know, it would appear that there was something wrong with me. Perhaps a manic-depression. Perhaps something gone sour within my skin. I destroy. I maim. I flense. I cause insanity to all that I touch. Cruel lioness claws rake my face when I cannot meet her predator perfection. My scarred and bruised and battered body, the savagery with which I lash out at those too close to my twisted, angry fingers, may seem too extreme. But once you begin to see the context, my position on the savanna, it all makes so much sense.
I am a weapon. I am destructive as sentient anti-matter walking through the room. I explode at the slightest push. I implode at the merest suggestion of imperfection. I beat the intelligence from my brain. I sob and cradle myself to oblivian. I am the Dirt Queen, stealing children and burying them alive when they cannot put my pieces back together. My wrath is borne by the innocent. Flowers wilt at my touch. Small, soft creatures tremble and cry when I come near. My aura is a shadow, reaching into their hearts. And squeezing. And squeezing. Until they are as cold as I am. I strangle with webs of self-deceit.
I see myself as if looking into a mirror. And there is nothing wrong. If I am self-destructive, and explosive, and volatile - I am just being a good weapon. If I stand on the threshold between composed and melted, then at least I have no delusions.
Not since I flexed my butterfly back to greet the sun disc, and saw only eight tiny feet where diaphanous wings should have been.
This isn't delusion, but disillusion.
Isn't that reason enough to cry?
