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Obituary For a Life Cycle

So much can be said about the woman I am helping cross over today.

A wide eyed, perpetually curious seeker- she always saw the potential in others, always saw what greatness peeked out from the shattered remnants of nostalgia expressed. She had come from an anger and fear so deep that it created a cruelty, a hatred. In conflict to this was a need so deep that it ate at her, it dug little holes all the way through, her bright eyes would beg for anything- a kind word, a touch, dreams expressed. Acknowledgement. Understanding.

There was always something behind her eyes, every time she’d stare into the mirror trying to figure out where in the hell she went. Once she started giving, she started losing ground. Slowly sinking in, becoming someone else’s idea. Always someone else’s idea- and because she could see those potentials, she always knew- the moment they could stare at her eyes just a little too long, the moment it sleepwalked out for an appearance- they would cringe back, they would fear it, and they would even hate it. But she did it anyway, that need screaming from her guts like some sorrowful wraith- watching life all around and unable to engage.

She could feel it inside of her. Still there, still in that half awake sleep where it couldn’t figure out if this was all some nightmare that at any moment, she’d awake.

She thought she had such nimble fingers. She thought that her hands were strong enough to hold the hope. The hope that somehow, some way, whatever it was whispering quietly would finally just hit that point of total oblivious sleep. Maybe then, it would be quiet. Maybe the need screams would go with it.

She could reach out and touch this image she’d created- the image they wanted, the image they promoted and twisted, distorting everything. She watched her ideas growing within polluted ground- used for exploitation, used for whatever. There’s no talking about that, now. No exposing. She learned the lesson pretty quickly that sometimes, well, Goliath doesn’t beat your ass- but, boy, you’re sore the next day.

This is a woman, her body screaming, her skin crawling, begging, needing- but, a joke, self deprecation, listen to the excuses. She lay back against the wall, her soul reaching out, stretching, floating on the smoke of some broken pipe dream. Occasionally oblivious to the growing need, the nightmare, the whispers of that growing beast.

She sounds so much like the victim. The problem being, the reason she could not hold that hope, the reason it always ran through her hands and smashed on the floor- the key to her chains was crowding it out.

When the whispering beast peeked out, when it sleepwalked- they looked at her with such wide eyes. Hormones. Stress.

She was nothing more than a dainty princess in a tower that she had built. The beast isn’t whispering anymore. Wide awake, flips her around to face those wild eyes, and suddenly, that girl saw that she was no girl. She was no maiden. Not anymore. The Mother now sees her own potential- and the beast has the will to run. She turned her hands up, looked down, recognized that key- all the potential she’d seen in others was a reflection. She sees that key.

Turned the lock, turn the page, burn all that shit to the ground- it is time,

it is the moment she recognized,

Her sacrifices, her need, her giving-

It was not hormones, it was not stress: that whispering beast was her. The need was her.

The fire may have dimmed to slight orange ash coal- the fear may have blown it out for years.

But today, she took the key, flipped the chains right on down the damn hall-

flung herself from the tower where that maiden of such self sacrifice, such martyrdom shattered in a haze of dust, glass, and all flammable- an incendiary on the wind to the coals in a flash

with a leap and a snarl she set the beast free-



…and that bitch is hungry.


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