icantcry

When I was a child of only three The Rotted man came for me late one night from my open door he slowly crept across the floor he took me by the hand and said I’ll save you from this life of dread we left the house in the early morn and took his carriage of blackened thorn we rode for hours through thick dense fog to a darkened unlit swamp filled bog where top-less trees with hanging moss were shields from the unseen winter frost the thick wet heat from the dense cool air crept up your back and through your hair he took me to his house of bones on a path laid with cobble stones upon his door hung a head of a child with hair of fiery red his hall was bathed in blood red tile the walls were stacks of flesh in piles He told me of his protective view and begged that I should join him too He smiled and through his rotted lips I saw a thousand children’s fingertips He promised me the world would pay and told me that I could stay Then we entered a smaller room and the rotted man gave me a red balloon Then I saw my mom through tinted glass The man with her was talking fast The tears were pouring from her eyes The man then held her while she cried Then the Rotted man did the strangest thing, He sat down with me and began to sing. A soft nice tune that filled my head With puppy dogs and fresh baked bread It was then I notice that the rotted man Was simply old and had a tan, And then my mom burst in the room The feel of warmth, her sweet perfume She hugged me tight and swore to me From here on out, Dad would let us be. No more bruises no more fights, No more screaming in the night, The rotted man had saved our lives, By taking those who beat their wives, And children that cry when they’re dropped, And are beaten senseless until they stop, I thank the Rotted man a lot, And never have I forgot, That the thing I feared, saved my life, They had found my father with a knife, There are real horrors on this earth, Some are subjected to them at birth, We were saved by a man made of rot, I was lucky, but many are not.

Down the block there’s an antique shop and something in my head said stop…

So I walked in….

Pero cada persona realmente hace lo que puede. Es decir, nadie puede comportarse mejor que lo que su nivel de conciencia le permite. Es imposible. Por esto es que no tiene ningún sentido enojarnos con nadie, ni indignarnos, ni sentir malestar alguno ante malas conductas, de otros o propias, por más extremas que sean. Sería como si nos enojáramos con un perro porque ladra, o con el fuego porque quema, o con el agua porque moja. Simplemente no pueden hacer otra cosa. En consecuencia, solo tiene sentido la aceptación y comprensión total de las situaciones, y el seguir reflexionando y meditando, para incrementar nuestra conciencia, y así mejorar nuestra propia conducta, la única que realmente podemos mejorar, lo cual nos permitirá dar un mejor ejemplo, única manera efectiva de influir positivamente sobre los demás."

online they're back to making fun of self-harm scars. isn't that funny. we have dropped the silver pretense of empathy and are walking around without any shred of humanity.

are you still shouting? how can anybody love you, then, siren. error signal. your voice so quiet and desperate. nobody is going to help you, stop begging. how can anybody actually look down at you without squashing you flat. oh, darling. you once bit into the back of your hand to stop from crying out, and discovered that it felt too dramatic for repeating.

people like you aren't supposed to cry, because you are too much. you have never meant to, but you take the air out of a room just by walking in. other people can take up room like a sunbeam. you blurt out all your wickedness in oilslicks, everyone can feel it. you slosh yourself over their hands and demand their flinch. you are a bone stuck in the throat.

be more beautiful, more perfect. if you can earn it, they won't abhor you. they might even tolerate you, if you turn the right way and never stand up straight.

but love? her life is a silver fish, a cat paw. your life is a long, thin, impossible desire - angry like a blade. your life is a crack in the floortile. you cannot bring your rotted fruit heart into the church of her hands. you will ruin her. you will overtake everything good for her.

or worse - you will have to beg her look at me. and that moment of desperation will ruin you forever. completely.

Mi corazón está bajo el agua y mientras todo se siente alejado, puedo recordar vivamente la sensación de tu piel contra la mía.

Creo que nunca me verás por quien soy, creo que nunca conocerás a la mujer que yace detrás del velo. Sus palabras caen en oídos sordos, pero sus caricias dejan un beso inolvidable en tu ser.

Pero ella es una musa muda, yace en silencio día tras día, sus palabras son prestadas y nadie nunca escucha lo que se esconde dentro de su mente.