Tattoos and pursuit
It is finished, and I am glad. The tattoo is a thing of beauty, it truly is, and I don't know how anyone could look at this and not think so.
It calms me, my body modification. It makes me feel grounded, here, real, alive. I don't care about the pain, that's temporary and the result is worth it. No one else can be me, no thing can take over this body now.
For I feel pursued. I am trying very hard not to have hysterics, drink too much, run away again. But I feel it daily: someone wants this body. Is it the first Emily? Were I her, a bitter spirit lost to all sensation, I might crave entry to a reincarnated version of myself. We are linked, that I know. Once, when I was young, I wrote poetry and turned it in for class only to be accused of plagiarism. The schoolmistress said I was mistaken in thinking no one would recognize the work, and I was made to do penance by cleaning the desks after school. Horrible, especially the boys', but worse was the humilation of having protested that it was my own work. It was....
If it is not Her, if some stray fetch is battering at my psyche, reaching to possess me, they shall not find it easy. I am not superstitious; I hang no garlands round my door, nor burn candles, nor sleep with herbs and flowers in pouch under my pillow. I make my body my own, and no one shall have it but me.
No, in one particular matter I am superstitious. I shall be a virgin no longer. The fetch will not long for me then, scratch at my window, moan for me in the deeps of the night until I wake dripping with sweat and fear. I will make of myself a woman, with the help of one whom I know is willing.
It calms me, my body modification. It makes me feel grounded, here, real, alive. I don't care about the pain, that's temporary and the result is worth it. No one else can be me, no thing can take over this body now.
For I feel pursued. I am trying very hard not to have hysterics, drink too much, run away again. But I feel it daily: someone wants this body. Is it the first Emily? Were I her, a bitter spirit lost to all sensation, I might crave entry to a reincarnated version of myself. We are linked, that I know. Once, when I was young, I wrote poetry and turned it in for class only to be accused of plagiarism. The schoolmistress said I was mistaken in thinking no one would recognize the work, and I was made to do penance by cleaning the desks after school. Horrible, especially the boys', but worse was the humilation of having protested that it was my own work. It was....
If it is not Her, if some stray fetch is battering at my psyche, reaching to possess me, they shall not find it easy. I am not superstitious; I hang no garlands round my door, nor burn candles, nor sleep with herbs and flowers in pouch under my pillow. I make my body my own, and no one shall have it but me.
No, in one particular matter I am superstitious. I shall be a virgin no longer. The fetch will not long for me then, scratch at my window, moan for me in the deeps of the night until I wake dripping with sweat and fear. I will make of myself a woman, with the help of one whom I know is willing.