The Child

Thunderstorms and a cigarette remind me of the child. Her lullaby of wind chimes and sweet giggles growing into a sorrowful symphony that, unbeknownst to her, would always be her haunting call. The many faces she would adapt, one as terrible as the next, with nothing that could be said or done to erase them from her memory. The stains that forever blackened her heart and brought rage and agony across her existence like sweeping tides. Her heart to often broken by the hands of man and his uncaring lust, that her trust disintegrated into the stone that became the woman, all that was left of her childhood.

 She hides away on her tower of thorned vines and broken mirrors, stomping about and crying to the heavens in rage for her cruel and unjust, premature damnation, blaming every tear and every frost on the gods above. What’s more, the powerlessness of her humanity sickened her, to the flesh turned black.

“Ill! Oh, ill!” she cried. “So ill is my fortune that which I call mortality! Cure the thesis of life’s great b*****d thou has called your child! Disease! Oh ill is this disease that I call rage that comes like the tide! That I call life! I challenge thee! Every bird of feather that dares sing and flap it’s wings, I will shoot down! Every bud that dares to blossom, I will cut away! Shedding the proof of thy life, thy glory, and thy beauty all in one! So that may all existence be ugly and tainted as I!”

For a blessed moment, all was still before she whispered, “This curse…I swear it.” And with that, one tear of vehemence slid down her sallowed cheeks and claimed it’s mark on the floor, seeping into the stone that was her heart.