Hornets

Behind my eyes I am hiding, behind my eyes are the stories that you have heard whispered across the sea as the moon pulls away from the earth. Drawing back to reveal the lay of the land, saddened, drenched with the sorrowful drowning of promises written upon sand. There are not always reasons why we love the way we do. We just do. It cannot be helped and the hindrance around our hearts must be worn as a straitjacket when madness comes calling our name

It knows mine well, we have become bedfellow these many years, it has ravaged my body with the intimacy of a lover spurned. Spiteful. Only the rooks can know the grief, I have heard it in their voices as they scavenge for the dead. We lay ours out, to examine. It surprises me they have not bled on the carpet. I have craved it so, historically. To leave evidence of the grotesque nature of it all. My romantic gene misfires memorandums from mind to miracles. How am I still walking. I don’t know how the madness came to be so strong, I gave in too quickly. Or was it the long and bitter bombardment that caused the final caving in. My pride once convex is dented, rusting.

I have visions of wine and water, of thick black coffee sliding down my throat. This does not extract the sensation of my formative years. Cry. Why do you never cry. For sure it must be the vanity engrained in you. There is nothing ugly about a sobbing woman, unless it is over a man too soon known and lost. This is a different tale and I cannot consider immoral obligations of the flesh.

His glasses are still resting where he left them on a Saturday morning. By the Wednesday there was no need of them. Seeing is only good when you have a view and I heard they spike your eyes closed. Is this to prevent you from seeing the faces your children and grandchildren make over your cold dead body. They are not what you would expect. I would have spat but my mouth had done so dry that I could barely talk.

Grey carpet, grey walls, grey body. Light had left the room or my vision impaired, limited my sensations. It is for your own good. Fear provokes two reactions however my flight defence is defective. Run, right back to hornets’ nest, strip down to your shame and let them annihilate you. They trapped a hornet once, ensnared between the window and the yellow stained net curtain, my grandmother beat it to death with her shoe. It was the same shoe she used when I told lies. Who can tell the difference between and insect and a child. They break the same under force. It was the urgent sense of freedom that frightened her, the droning sound of escape and for her, exposure.

There, there, it will all be well in the end. As I stuff my fist in my mouth to push back the truth rising like bile. Role reversal.  Children are taught to tell the truth, or the adult version of it.

The camber of the long road ahead shifts from side to side giving the sense of sailing. Distance is only relative. Four thousand mile is the same as four steps when your legs are tied together. I need rescuing. I am rescued already. Us two, you and I, heaved my mind from an infinite body of umbilical water. Remember, today is only a moment and will pass into tomorrow. To spark then, with a sense of newness that shall captivate my eyes with images laden in veracity. The cold stings me back to where I truly am. But it is too far from the arms of those I love and for now, I must content myself with the lukewarm recollection of their arms.

Copyright: Samantha Ledger 2013