I realize idly that I can’t tell them about this. I realize that things have passed me by, and I have not yet learnt how to stop them half way through and say; wait. Just give me one moment. I’ll fix whatever was made undone, because I can.

There are certain things most won’t ever find the words to do, nor even the reasons. I am the sort of cause you’d need to define what’s necessary to give you the guts to poke through all the invisible walls in front of you. My mother used to say she always knew there was something wrong with me, ever since she held me in her arms. I have had to discover this to be wrong. In her eyes there is a crooked world, and I have the knife to cut through it and undo the whole wretched thing. But she breathes this horrible world as a second truth, next to being alive at all.

Thus, since I can carve my way out of her miserable existence and give everything meaning, to her it would mean no more than burning her brittle bones and tearing apart the fake curtains to display the real show.

As it is with what most happen to do, view, see and enjoy, or even cry at, those are merely shadows of interplay. There’s another dimension of things to take up on, a life to be lived, dreams to be spoken out loud. Only if you dare.

I was born reckless and ruthless, maybe even terrible and monstrous. Though I might have been a pretty little child, someone with eyes a little too big and a mouth a little too questioning, an aura of the dark loomed above my head, which again was filled with such diverse thoughts and visions that in another age I might never have been allowed to speak. I recall being barely before adolescence, having taken up on writing for real, the first time ever. I had waited and waited all those years of childhood to be able to finally write the words I could feel tingle on the tips of my fingers. But the tools had not been sharpened properly; I was like a pen without ink. I was put on hold for time to gnaw me raw.

Until I stood in front of the fridge in the kitchen and hung up yet another one of my new poems, being all fresh and proud like a bud just above its prison of soil. And then I did have my mother read what I had written, I did have her take it in, and I fed her this as an insolent child wanting feedback.

Later on I had many times of realization to dig through where I knew instinctively that my mother feared me more than she feared the past and her terrors, and she feared me with the passion a five year old fears the dark before falling asleep. She would read my words, black stains on paper, and then she would look at me from the corner in her eye, assessing her reality as she ought believe it should present itself to her, and she’d startle for a mere second. Enough for me to catch onto. It was always the same response, until it faded away into oblivion of hoping that if one does not spill the beans, they might stay hidden in their can behind the other kitchen utensils, rotting away for ever. How, how, how can you write about something you have never even experienced?

I loved to hang onto the how. And I loved to feel superior to her. I was a cruel being in the hands of my abusers. But I was giving them all their money’s worth.

Many years later I would for the first time in my 23 year old essence relish at the thought of having one of my greatest fears of childhood bend to every word I should so like to speak aloud. Adults, in their blind stupor, had treated me with hate, pure angst and distaste, and led me into the fire of their misgivings and misfortune. Unfortunately, it had all been made at their own hands’ doing, and to grow up and forget about the innocence of your once so little self, and its ability to see right through every other lie is simply put stupidity. I could not defend against their attacks, and I could not bury my heart from the loss of love drilling open wounds into places I still dare not touch. But in my core of chaos, in everything that was deemed abnormal and even evil, I twisted, bent and came back up to the surface. Repeat in cycle.

Time, of course, was on my side. I grew up and I grew strong, and they grew stale in their old forget me nots and pungent longings for all they had not reached out of own incompatibility and incompetence. I could have ridiculed them into blindness and muteness, but I did not.

You can cut away eternity and open holes into nothing if you can only catch onto the nook of it all. The way to tear at certain aspects of so called reality is not to destroy it and defile it, but to make it heed your calling. I would have grown up to be tender, loved and wanted, but instead I was loathed for the strangeness that I am, and became the iron upon which they hammered their misfortune. In what may have been less a sacrifice, I never fully yielded to anything, but resisted, invoking strengthened punishment.

I was made into a two edged sword, but I cut myself indefinitely due to this and then I came to wield the sword myself.

If you’d like, I can find you. I am almost ready to speak the words that invoke the power to undo the dark. Within the darkest of shadow, there is a candle burning. But within light as such, there will always be a tinge of shadow, wherein I will fall when you wish to burn me.

And it is true. I have not yet learnt all I need to know. To cut efficiently without tearing at the sides. So if you approach me with ignorance as your only weapon, and you are always on your guard for nothing, then I will be the something you will hope not to encounter.

I am reckless, ruthless, and maybe terrible. But I am seeking to find what I have never had.

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