Monday, November 26, 2012

Mary You Will Always Be

over by the bastards you fall for. Fall. The way you fall on your face or ass juggling and scrambling over to do their bidding and pander to whims and roll over their mood swings. Aren’t you tired yet, you stupid bitch. The long and suffering Mary, you want to be. Why.
You see
and see and the voice inside you niggles if this is it and this is how it will be. Exhausted, here you are, waiting still. You want to make a bet that after Joseph’s done he might not even ask where you are, if you waited. Or worse that he had already gone home while you are here waiting, when you could have gone home yourself. Tired already as it is, your days now running for 24-hours to ride his clock that refused to fall unto steady ticking.
You are fucked
over. Without dinner and dinner is now this beer to soothe your mangled nerves. You knew it. You should have gone home. And you didn’t and you knew that your mouth would run over given the restraint has been whittled away by the day’s grounding. You refuse to assert or defend what good you’ve done. When would all this falling and falling over be over.
like clapped hands while asleep to wake yourself up. Why do you constantly seek the difficult and seek its worth. Play, bitch. Play it like it should be, cool, and cold, and mum. How about if the feared tonight happens. What then. Well, you go on home stupid girl, oh you idiot and never say how you waited or why you waited or how much you loved. Or to make an accounting of what you’ve done, unappreciated.
It will never
be enough, what you do, for this one’s the hungriest of them all and look at you, at how your flesh has been eaten or how your bones have been sucked off the marrow. Want to make a bet that he will never search nor will he ever look or ask where you are. Because he will wait and always wait for the lead from you. And your skepticism will always try to trust, hoping always that this time maybe you’ll let go, and it will war with your self-protective instincts to anticipate. So that what hurts will not destroy you. 
So, silence.
So, he will be comforted once more by his toad and lion. While you play out the martyrdom here. Here, where you wait like a fool playing hide and seek. Sickened and sickening. You look around. No. There’s nothing. No. There’s no one. No. He will not come. No. He’s not here. No. He will go home. He will not ask. And you, you will be hurt. And nurse that like the cold that never goes away. That cold you feel in your chest.
Fucked over.  In the desert inside you
is cackling. It is choking, isn’t it, Darling. When the wind is the air. It comes and goes. Support? Whatever you do will never be supportive enough. The best that can be done will never be enough. And you hurt like a child. Hurt by the green’s anger. Green. Still green. Rage that cannot be controlled and a tornado always comes to take what you have loved and love in this man-child. And what’s feared has happened.
He left. Did not ask
where you were. Expecting for you to tell him. He did not ask. He tells you it’s your fault. He tells you “whatever”. By god. Your dead God. He tells you to go home. He’s too tire and frayed. He doesn’t want another outburst because you’re frustrated. He tells you to ease the fuck up. Slaps. There it is woman: You’re with the wrong man. This is horror. This is truth. And you… you want to laugh.
Come on, be yourself,
woman, Stop being kind. Be the cruel woman that you really are. Stop the Hail Mary. A man gets to say that he is tired but a woman is never supposed to be able to say that. You have to endure. This is a turning point. The cold in you knows it. This is the night you decide that you will leave him. That cut. That silence. There is relief. 
Loss is there
and there is relief. You can look around the plaza now and finally see what you see and smile. The Father who knows you is right. End it, he said. End it. Cut. Just leave. And once more, it’s “Nothing’s gonna change my world…” in your head, that song, that song that steadies you in the shifting reality by being with the scorching wind, the air that drowns. You are intelligent but have yet to smarten up. And here you are, smarting and smartening.
You now remember that time you were
in college, had become ill, dying and the only thing that made sense was dying, and the only person to which this made sense was a metallic voice who listened like a robot and a robot you would pay and who’d only nod and drug you more and more after.  And you were almost reduced to a vegetable. Or was it the time just before then.
No, no, that was after.
There you were in one of the malls you would always hate. You were on the upper floor where there were less people. And you were looking around. You went into a shop full of coins made worthless by time yet ironically like with most real things in life—rendered so by facts of what makes human— more valuable. You just went in without looking back. You looked back and none of your family was there.
There you were
wearing your Mickey Mouse baseball jersey and baggy jeans and white socks and flip-flops. There you were without money or ID in your pockets. Without even that detested phone like the Nokia 5110 or 3210. Or all the Motorolas or Nokias that you’d always lose after. You sat. And waited.
They came back
for you. They were looking for you the whole time.  They came back. They came back frantic and trying to dispel it with the macabre humor you all developed from different childhood hells yet hell all the same. The kind that laughed at laughs still at horror. There you were, a look that would surface now and then on your face before shook off, the way a dog would shake off the spinning from a blow to the head, a face crumbled by fear and grief and loss. Shook off by cold resolve, that resolve which allowed you to survive hells.
That look
that showed being lost and just lost, un-tethered, unmoored ad returned to that bed where you would stare up towards the dark while the monsters do you in bed. That look in the dark taking you way from the bed, from the house, from the city, from the province, from the region, from the island, from the country, from Southeast Asia, from Asia, from Earth, from the Solar System, from the Milky Way, to beyond and beyond where the end is and it all began.  
And thereon, they
knew. And so wherever you go one or two or more of them would walk beside you and take your hand. Or you’d walk in the middle. Sit in the middle between two bodies which reassured you that you were safe while in theatres. That would usher you inside trains outside the country that is your home. And once, not so long ago, someone you loved walked out the door and left you.
That one told
your loved ones, in a way, about it.  Your loved ones said that one who left would be really lucky if one could still ever get to enter that door again. 
And you hear
right then, a door that had been swinging, and it quietly closed. 

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