my darkened eyes
June 7, 2012
He keeps talking about how I look and something is making me sick. And as he continues my tongue begins to itch. And it seems I hold it at the wrong times and unleash it when it’s too late. And by that point it’s just noise, just the sound of claws shredding flesh, of venom pouring out.
But what is killinn me is how I see it all, how my mind is still as lake with no ripples on the surface. Everything is tranquil and calm until something shatters the peace and waves start to break. And as they roll I see myself and I myself am no innocent. I partake. And there’s an undercurrent of rage and that rage slips through my fingers and I see it in all over my face.
And he is looking at me when he should be looking at himself, but there’s nothing I can do about that. All I can see is how I am being, both now and in the past. I am looking into a mirror, a curious thing, and I am seeing Mr. Brown and I am beginning to understand.
In preparation for my second book, I started reading my notes and my correspondence and thinking of all those things I said and did and how he responded and how I ignored him and how I kept moving forward with blinders on. Blinders? Blindfold. I couldn’t see a thing except for the dream that enchanted me into believing I wanted something I never did.
And that desire lead me astray, in as much as astray is the only way I could have gone. And he warned me, he did, telling me writing this book might release demons but I think the demons already left the building. And what remains is me, with no subterfuge, no walls to hide behind, no shadows to box. Because what I set out to do has changed before it has even begun and no longer is this a story of unrequited love.