Enough

Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com
Stride by sivel120001 via DeviantArt.com

(Originally posted November 2014)

My fingers press against the cold glass causing the area just around them to fog from my warmth. I’d love to break this glass that tells me I’m not pretty enough, sexy enough, skinny enough… I’d love to break it and cut away this disgusting flesh that makes me feel like I’m not enough. I’d love to bleed away all these feelings of hatred and disgust. I’d like to feel the pain of that instead of the useless pain of self abhorrence.

I stare hard at that bitch who screams inside my head that I’m ugly and useless. I can’t stand her voice, it feels like a hammer breaking bones inside my skull. I can’t listen to her for another single minute.

I press harder on the glass and focus every ounce of my magic on those points of contact. I know I might break the mirror, but the sound of that might be welcome compared to the hurtful abuse going on inside my skull. I push harder and harder until I suddenly begin to feel my fingers permeating the membrane of this plane.

My reflection sees and laughs, taking on that awful voice. “Whatcha gonna do, baby doll? Do you think you can come through here and shut me up? God, you are dense.”

I wonder if I’m strong enough. Can I truly breech reality? Can I go through this glass? Is this possible?

Her abuse begins anew, from the other side of that force field, and I don’t even care if this is insane and I’ve had some sort of mental break. I am going to shut her up. I am going to make her stop or I’m going to kill her.

My arm slips in and she backs up, laughing harder until my grip finds her wrist and I pull, hard.

Her face slams into the glass, and I find this incredibly amusing, since my arm is literally reaching through this completely impermeable surface. I do it again twice, giggling at the shock in her expression. She tries to yank her hand from my grasp, but only succeeds in pulling me further in. I lift my other hand to brace myself from smacking my own face on the glass, but then those fingers begin to slip through the surface as well.

I yank her toward me again, and punch her hard in the face. She bounces back, but not out of my grip, and blood begins to gush from her nose. It was a surprisingly square hit, given the awkwardness of this fight, but I do it again before she recovers her wit and starts to fight me.

She captures both of my hands and yanks me into the glass, but it is not solid for me, and my upper body slips into the reflection as if it were another room.

At this point, I realize I am clearly crazy and decide to just pummel that wicked whore to death on the other side. As I lunge toward her, she lands a good punch to my throat, knocking the wind out of me, and I fall back into my own bathroom, wheezing and lifting my bloody hand to my throat. I can smell the acrid tinge and wonder for a moment if this might actually be real. Am I fighting the bitch in the mirror.

I stand and stare at her, blood pouring from her broken nose down her chin onto my favorite blouse. “You’re ruining my shirt.”

The shock in her eyes is disarming, as she stares at my chest, and when I look down, it is clear why. I am bleeding too, and I reach up to feel my own broken nose, even though she never landed a punch anywhere but my neck. Realization dawns on us both, as she too is holding her own throat and wheezing. If we fight each other long enough, I will rip apart.

I stand and wonder if I could do that. Kill myself to silence the hate. Cause myself the greatest pain in order to end all pain.

I lean down against the vanity on my elbows and revel in the silence of her contemplating my ability to end my own life in order to end her. My blood drips into the sink but then suddenly stops, and as I stand upright and look at my reflection again, I see that nothing has happened. It wasn’t real. But one tiny drop of blood remains, on the edge of the sink, daunting me.

A reminder? I can beat myself senseless over the reflection in the mirror. I can beat myself to death, if I’m not careful.

I look again at the girl in that glass. A sight that normally fills me with ‘not enoughs’. Because I will forever be not pretty enough or sexy enough or thin enough or smart enough or sweet enough or good enough… This time, the girl I see is just enough.

Enough to keep me from pummeling myself to death.

That girl in the reflection, that girl who plenty of people DO think is enough… Maybe it’s time she accepted that perfection is unattainable. And that today, at least today, I am enough.

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Fallen House

https://i2.wp.com/img10.deviantart.net/3a73/i/2009/038/4/1/fallen_house_by_schneeengel.jpg
Fallen House by schneeengel via DeviantArt.com

Peeking in the windows
Of broken houses
You make your judgments
Assumptions
Based on perception
Instead of knowledge
Marking the walls with the
Graffiti
Of your supposition
No compassion for the souls
Who reside within

You think you know
That your circumstance
Gives you the right
To use
Someone else’s world
To convey
Your twisted message
Fueling the fire inside your heart
With the silence
Of that house
When really
Your muse is screaming
Trapped
Inside

One day you’ll know
How it feels
Some day
Someone will
Throw paint on
Your battered shell
Use YOU
As the
Un-indemnified muse
For their art
One day
That day
Maybe you’ll understand
What it’s like
Inside

A fallen house

Reversion

http://erbphotography.deviantart.com/art/The-Couple-161547410
The Couple by erbphotography

It isn’t simple
Resurrecting love
Indignation becomes
A dull ache of regret
A wearied tremble of
Misunderstood longing
A thick copse of
Bewilderment

Empty branches
Still stretching out
For a future
That was once sketched
In fertile soil
An orchard
Illustrated
By seedlings
Dreaming grandly
Beyond the pots that held
Us

Too many
Harsh winters
Faded that blueprint
Narrowing our landscape
Refusing our achy demands
For that which
Nurtures
That which
The earth itself
Should feed us

If only we could revert
To those beatific
Youths with
Dreams bigger than worries
Lust thicker than monotony
Joy brighter than resentment

No
Reversion can only be
Granted to
More simplistic things
Than love
If you wish to remain
A new plan
Must be formed

Reinvention
Instead of
Reversion
A task that seems beyond
My withered old tree
Roots too tangled
To turn his face to
The rising sun

But as I tug and
Shift to free myself
I feel the heat
And glory of
The sunrise before me
Combined with
The sweet warm
Memories
At my back
And wonder

How long could I
Linger
Between the two?

Could I
Reinvent
Reversion?

Pretty

AG Studio Blog
AG Studio Blog

a butterfly’s
broken wings
do not
detract from their
beauty
magic cannot be lost
in the wind
or rain
the beat of my heart
remains strong
despite it’s ache
and your love never
waivers
even in the ugly face
of doubt
I am Pretty
basking in
your glow
simpering beneath
your smile
stinging from
your will
so pretty
in the clear calm warmth
of your gaze
you know just the words
and look
and touch
I need
to burn away that fog
and see myself
clearly
once again
I am Pretty
in the reflection
of your love
my wings are healed
because
of your love

Dark Dream

At the start of this dark dream,
I cannot hear anything but my voice.
I cannot see anything except myself.

I’m grasping in the blackness for you,
Pleading with you to speak to me.
Begging you to touch me.

I know you are there,
I can feel your presence.
I can sense you.

But you still don’t speak or reach for me,
I begin to cry and scream.
“Why don’t you want me?”

Finally I feel your grip,
As you tightly wrap your fingers around my throat.
As you viciously restrain my wrists.

I still cannot see you,
Something distorts my vision.
Something dark, thick and heavy.

“Why don’t you want me? Sir,
Tell me what you want.
Tell me what you need.”

“You don’t know how,” your voice is cold,
I cannot fulfill your desires.
I cannot be your charge.

You release me, but it feels as though you never had me,
I stand and await your command.
I do not remove the blinder.

I whimper into the darkness,
You beckon me to find you.
I anxiously set out towards your voice.

I sense your presence closer,
I reach you, knowing it, without touching you.
I fall to my knees at your feet.

“Why don’t you want me?”
The question hangs in the air.
You remove the mask from my eyes.

You sit before me, bathed in the darkness,
My flesh, untouched.
My lips, unkissed.

I search your empty eyes,
You do not see me.
You do not hear me.

You beckon for me again,
But I’m right before you.
If you’d just reach out, you’d feel me.

“Why don’t you want me?”
Your eyes pierce my soul.
Your tears sting as if they were my own.

“Please, Sir. You’re hurting me…”
Your gaze finally finds mine.
You finally heard me.

“I cannot truly hurt you,
That’s the draw, pumpkin.
You’ll have to hurt yourself.”

I actually would hurt myself for you,
I would do it everyday.
Because you can’t hurt me.

Because I need to be hurt.

Because you need me to be hurt.

Because you actually DO hurt me.

Constantly.

“Why don’t you want me?”

And then I awake,
My heart in my throat.
My nails digging into my palms.

Hurting myself.

For you.

The sadist in my dreams.