shadow and rage

I’ve been poor. I have bruised my fingers, marked my hands with the shape of the scissors, the punctures of the needle. I knew hunger, I knew solitude, I knew pain.

No. I thought I knew pain.

I’ve been a queen. I’ve been bathed in jewels, in gold and most importantly, in love. I have been kissed, I have been hugged. He was love. His arms were comfort, his kisses were devotion, his words were nothing but elevation for my soul.

I thought I knew what it felt like to be loved. Maybe I was wrong.

I’ve been a martyr. I’ve been poisoned and killed, and kept as a dead woman, becoming a doll. I have found peace in the embrace of death, and it didn’t feel like the fire on my fair skin his touch and kisses created. It was peace and nothingness. Until I was brought back.

Then I was pain. Sorrow. I’ve been not forgotten, I’ve been fueled by his love and fueled by hate. I’ve been robbed from something no one, not even me, can quite grasp. I was pain, pain like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Pain that was stronger than the soft caresses of the most expensive fabrics he had procured for me.

                                              shadow and rage