Missing Limbs
Reaching out for the skies
But the arms are chopped off
A terrible sense of anger came over me, over my plight, over all that I had missed.
I had come into this world with so much hope and desire, with no warnings that my hopes were misplaced, and they were burnt down.
I reached out for love, I reached out for the skies, I reached out for trust, but my hands had been chopped off, and all the while I could see hope, love and trust all around me, but to me it was denied, for I had no hands to reach out for them, for they had been chopped off. And worse, this amputation was invisible to others, who assumed me to be unworthy of these gifts, and unneeding of these gifts. This stirred up a great rage inside me. Worse, the one time that hope did float into my vision, it turned out to be a great betrayal. Oh, so many were the times I tried to fly, only forgetting that my wings were burnt down before I could learn to fly, without however killing the instinct to fly.
Oh, so many were the times that I tried to commune, but each time blasphemies whispered from the skies horrified her away. Each time these nonexistent hands tried to clasp, I kept running in midnight circles chasing only despair disguised as hope. What wrong did I do? What mistake have I committed, to be undeserving of all that I long for? Why did I ever leave the womb alive to experience this betrayal, pain, this disappoinment? Why subject me to this frustration again and again and again?
And the adult was killed in the child and the child was killed in the adult.
I had come into this world with so much hope and desire, with no warnings that my hopes were misplaced, and they were burnt down.
I reached out for love, I reached out for the skies, I reached out for trust, but my hands had been chopped off, and all the while I could see hope, love and trust all around me, but to me it was denied, for I had no hands to reach out for them, for they had been chopped off. And worse, this amputation was invisible to others, who assumed me to be unworthy of these gifts, and unneeding of these gifts. This stirred up a great rage inside me. Worse, the one time that hope did float into my vision, it turned out to be a great betrayal. Oh, so many were the times I tried to fly, only forgetting that my wings were burnt down before I could learn to fly, without however killing the instinct to fly.
Oh, so many were the times that I tried to commune, but each time blasphemies whispered from the skies horrified her away. Each time these nonexistent hands tried to clasp, I kept running in midnight circles chasing only despair disguised as hope. What wrong did I do? What mistake have I committed, to be undeserving of all that I long for? Why did I ever leave the womb alive to experience this betrayal, pain, this disappoinment? Why subject me to this frustration again and again and again?
And the adult was killed in the child and the child was killed in the adult.
posted by changingsun at
5:55 AM
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