The Hope Deferred

The next time I pick up a snake I vow to not be surprised when it bites me.
I'm so bad for you, the snake whispers.
But with misplaced faith I draw the snake to my heart.
It won't hurt me, I grin stupidly.
And even snakes need love.
Ouch.
That little fucker broke the skin.
What did you expect? the snake grins back.   Are you ok, it asks as it slithers away and it takes me just as long as the poison drips down my neck to realize the question was rhetorical.

I think some men don't want women they want dolls.  Little.Fragile.Porcelain.Dolls.  The kind that shatter when thrown across the room.  Nothing feels sexier than having power over something else.  Especially the kind of control that destroys.  I did that the man can boast.  There are creators and there are destroyers.  The destroyers would create if they only knew how.  So they create chaos in the wake of destruction.  They find beauty in pain.  They are the sadists who long to be masochists.

And who wouldn't want to take light to keep in his pocket.  Or shoe.

I am one, singular.  It baffles me those magicians who cut their insides into tiny pieces and strategically compartmentalize each and every one, categorically, alphabetically organizing each distorted truth.  The mirrors housing each shifted reflection are aligned just so that one tiny pebble could start a ripple of shattering glass as simply as it dances with the ocean.
Conveniently for me I always travel with a bag full of rocks for just such an occasion.
Boys are stupid.  Throw rocks at them.


I like lies.  I enjoy watching them executed by an amateur.  I like the way their eyes can't meet mine.  The falter in their voice that counters the validity of their words.  Actions reveal.  Words deceive.  I heard all 'twas spoken and laugh most heartily at the shaky delivery.  An acting class would serve well for making an audience believe requires ingenuity, sincerity and depth.  You can't fake a faker.  I'm a much better liar.  They've yet to shatter my mirror.  Observe.

A touch of revenge.  A dash of disdain.  A pinch of indifference, pity, disgust.

The men I never heard from again had nothing more to say.  What more was left?

You cannot be sorry for outcomes you orchestrated.
You cannot play the fool in a story penned in your own hand.
You cannot profess deep romance for the rulebook reads simply, "can't be r.o.m.a.n.t.i.c."

So you do what you always do what you hate to do what inevitably destroys you.
And cut off the tiny piece inside of you so it grows no more, yet refuses to die. 
And with shaking hands you find an empty box and place it inside. 
And shift the hall of mirrors to reflect the dissatisfaction into smiles. 
And years tick away, and suspicions peak and fall, and the tiny piece in the tiny box twitches involuntarily.  And it sends shivers through your gut and perfumes the air. 
And at times your hand reaches for its hiding place to take it out and feel it again.
But the mirrors have buried each door.  And the box is no longer in sight. 
So it just sits there.  Stirring.  Calling to numbed ears.  Willing for release.  For freedom.
So you swallow more broken glass and convince your tears the pain is beauty.
And rub your fingers over the tiny bird and try not to see the colors in his opened wings.
And whisper, I am free.