December Entry for Brigit's Flame Community
Our given prompt was: Unity
NOTE: This might be slightly disturbing. Remember: this is feelings not actions.
Titled: "Argument in Metaphor"
I'm weak. You can see my weakness, I cannot hide today. My walls are melting down. And here I stand, defenses failing. I say, "You know, OK. You can see, here it is, this really, really soft part of me. You see it now. I'll let you run your hand over it. But gentle, gentle, please be gentle ... "
I hold my hands out, tears dripping down my face. I have no defenses, not there. Now what will you do? Please, please, can you love me anyways?
I wait for the gentle touch, the tender caress. Perhaps you'll find an ice pack or a soft compress. Will you love me in my imperfection?
I didn't see the blow coming, nor the slap that followed. You grab me by my weakness. Even just your touch is painful, the pressure unbearable.
"Painful? Well, you should toughen it up, nothing like a good slap!"
"No, no...please." I'm begging you.
"You know, that's not enough. You're a big woman now, this shouldn't even exist on you. Why don't we just grab a knife, let's get this out once and for all."
I hit you back but you have my weakness in your hands. My strength is diverted to defense of my tenderness; my blows are useless as you cut this out: searing pain, dripping blood.
"There you go, there you go ... now it's gone. You can't say it hurts anymore, it doesn't even exist! I'm tired, I'm going to bed," you say.
Can't you see? It's worse than before. My tender spot is now a wound, freshly seared.
"And I don't want to hear of it again, OK? It's gone, I took care of it myself," you toss back over your shoulder. Sighing, you lay down and sleeps the sleep of the peaceful.
I'm losing blood fast. My tears drip into my wound, the salt stinging yet hardly noticeable in the throbbing pain.
I cover the wound you claim is not there.
"Why are you so bundled up?" you say the next day. "Why aren't you talking, come here, hug me." You look confused when I shy from your touch.
"You must love me again, we're always to be together," you say and this time, instead of security, I feel dread. I cannot trust you with my weakness. I cover my wound with my hand, hand over bandage and hope and pray, hope with tears, that the scar will be tougher than the skin that used to be so soft.
I hope the scar will take over my skin, covering my whole body. I can't be soft with you, yet we must co-exist.
Yet beneath the tough, the soft exists, just buried deeper than ever.
I cannot cut it out. It's part of me. Part you won't help me with. We could have bonded, united in protection. My strong one, standing in front to shield my weakness. The conqueror of my heart, who holds me tenderly.
But no, now there is unity in denial, as we both try to forget the softness I once had. The past will stay the past, and the hurt is, yet again, mine alone to carry. I wanted to share the weight; it's crushing me. But it stays mine, though I try to drop it.
Now, I'll be hard for you. I wish to please you. But do you ever miss the beauty, the melting softness you felt beneath your fist? Did you feel it at all?
NOTE: This might be slightly disturbing. Remember: this is feelings not actions.
Titled: "Argument in Metaphor"
I'm weak. You can see my weakness, I cannot hide today. My walls are melting down. And here I stand, defenses failing. I say, "You know, OK. You can see, here it is, this really, really soft part of me. You see it now. I'll let you run your hand over it. But gentle, gentle, please be gentle ... "
I hold my hands out, tears dripping down my face. I have no defenses, not there. Now what will you do? Please, please, can you love me anyways?
I wait for the gentle touch, the tender caress. Perhaps you'll find an ice pack or a soft compress. Will you love me in my imperfection?
I didn't see the blow coming, nor the slap that followed. You grab me by my weakness. Even just your touch is painful, the pressure unbearable.
"Painful? Well, you should toughen it up, nothing like a good slap!"
"No, no...please." I'm begging you.
"You know, that's not enough. You're a big woman now, this shouldn't even exist on you. Why don't we just grab a knife, let's get this out once and for all."
I hit you back but you have my weakness in your hands. My strength is diverted to defense of my tenderness; my blows are useless as you cut this out: searing pain, dripping blood.
"There you go, there you go ... now it's gone. You can't say it hurts anymore, it doesn't even exist! I'm tired, I'm going to bed," you say.
Can't you see? It's worse than before. My tender spot is now a wound, freshly seared.
"And I don't want to hear of it again, OK? It's gone, I took care of it myself," you toss back over your shoulder. Sighing, you lay down and sleeps the sleep of the peaceful.
I'm losing blood fast. My tears drip into my wound, the salt stinging yet hardly noticeable in the throbbing pain.
I cover the wound you claim is not there.
"Why are you so bundled up?" you say the next day. "Why aren't you talking, come here, hug me." You look confused when I shy from your touch.
"You must love me again, we're always to be together," you say and this time, instead of security, I feel dread. I cannot trust you with my weakness. I cover my wound with my hand, hand over bandage and hope and pray, hope with tears, that the scar will be tougher than the skin that used to be so soft.
I hope the scar will take over my skin, covering my whole body. I can't be soft with you, yet we must co-exist.
Yet beneath the tough, the soft exists, just buried deeper than ever.
I cannot cut it out. It's part of me. Part you won't help me with. We could have bonded, united in protection. My strong one, standing in front to shield my weakness. The conqueror of my heart, who holds me tenderly.
But no, now there is unity in denial, as we both try to forget the softness I once had. The past will stay the past, and the hurt is, yet again, mine alone to carry. I wanted to share the weight; it's crushing me. But it stays mine, though I try to drop it.
Now, I'll be hard for you. I wish to please you. But do you ever miss the beauty, the melting softness you felt beneath your fist? Did you feel it at all?