These Walls Can Speak

7 Feb

These Walls Can Speak

At first I could not breathe between these walls, there was no room for my lungs to expand, no air just insulation and dust. So tightly was I packed between the two by fours and the drywall that I could not even open my mouth to scream so I whispered my despair. So soft was my pleading that only those who understood the utter hopelessness of deliverance from those who are stronger came to offer the solace of their teeth and claws, mandibles and pincers.

My thoughts grew stronger with every tear at my flesh. When my eyes left their sockets carried away ever so delicately between the tiny white razor sharp teeth of my rodent deliverers I began to truly see. I saw deep into the heart of my killer. I was able to count the minutest rays on the tail end star on Cassiopeia.

My ears were harvested by an enterprising centipede which left me free to hear the steps of a flea on a bar of soap. Touch, taste and smell were lost completely but in their place was the capacity to focus like never before. I was thought and emotion. And they constantly warred within me till I became the stuff that night terrors are made of. And yet underneath it all I was able to dredge up a fleeting moment or two of sheer optimism.

This feeling had nothing to do with God. I have never been a believer, not even when those hands were around my neck did I hedge my bets and call out. I died in silence just like I lived. I am not however silent in my death. My bones crack like sapless branches behind the headboard of their bed. I articulate my condemnation in their ears as they sleep, their dogs howling in solidarity.

I make their most precious things disappear or lie broken where they will cut their feet. And I write on every wall, on every surface, on every inch of awareness that killing me has only anchored me deeper in their lives. That I am here behind these walls where they have placed me and I am waiting for them to join me.

Who I Really Am

31 Jan

Who I Really Am

You look deep into my eyes and say you know me, that you have always known me. You touch my skin and tell me that even in a thousand years the feel of it against your fingertips will still thrill you like nothing else. You bury your face in my hair and inhale me like opium whispering that I am the dragon that you chase. You catch my tears on your tongue, store my words in your memory, intuit my unspoken needs and yet you couldn’t have it more wrong.

You believe me to be who I seem. Not just the woman I allow you to see. And you trust that because I have confessed my abuse and all the sundry sins and pervasive agonies that you have the depth, the breadth, the entirety of my now and forever. When all you have is your own desire reflected back.

How can you comprehend me when I am not complete? I am still in chrysalis form. If I have no idea how I will emerge, how can you? I may break out with razor-sharp cheekbones and slash open your thighs. Or I could erupt as an infinitesimal swarm of incandescence splattered across the pre-dawn sky. I might be a liar, a cheat, a butcher of books and chocolates. Perhaps I am your mother, your daughter or you with a better imagination and vocabulary. If I could choose I would be your undertaker and lay to rest all your unrealistic expectations of me. I would be your incompetent surgeon, the one who nicked your vocal cords while performing a perfectly standard tonsillectomy. I would be the one who stuck the pin in all your bubbles and laughed uproariously as you dashed about frantically with your duck tape.

How can you see into me when I am coated in lead? I am a bottomless lake. I am the quicksand that will pull you under when you feel the most secure. I am the laugh that is pointed in your direction, the water that spills on your lap. I am not your friend. I am not your enemy. I have never been your lover in this or any other life although it is possible that we may have fucked.

Although I walk beside you, I am not of you. We do not read the same words though we scan the same page. I do not taste the dark richness of your coffee. You do not feel the rasp of my regret. I cannot smell your sincerity. You fail to hear my truth.

You have never known me.


Most of the stories here will be first drafts like this one. I may work on one over a period of weeks or sometimes just chat. Feel free to ask me questions, comment on anything but spelling and grammar. You can even ask me to write about something. I can’t guarantee that I will do it, or that I will do it right away but I will if the idea appeals to me. I do have to warn you though that I likely won’t take your idea in the direction you hoped for.

Welcome To My Shadowlands

27 Jan

For those of you who followed any of my other blogs, this will be somewhat different. Primarily this weekly blog will be fiction intermingled with whatever agida is percolating in my life at the time. See you Monday.