Persephone's sister -the unnamed

He approaches her like a prison guard approaches a wounded inmate.  He is slow and cautious but posturing,  believing that she is faking. He is  ready to break his baton over  her  pale exposed neck if she moves the wrong way.
   He tells her that he is sorry for the way he treated her the day before.  He kneels and pushes her hair away from her face. Strands are stuck to her cheek from her inability to stop crying.  He puts an arm around her and she melts into him. Hey, he whispers, I don't want  for this to happen. It's just easy because you're worthless.  I wish I could make you something more than nothing,  but I cant.  I wish I could pretend that you're worth loving,  but you...I cant even bring myself to talk to you. You know how stupid you are right, babe? Do you understand, babe?
    She nods her head yes.
     Okay, he says. He removes her clothes and covers her mouth.  You have to be quiet he reminds her. No one can know. No one would understand why I'm with you, okay.
      She nods her head yes.
      I'm going to keep you right here okay, he asks her. That way I can come see you when I'm free. You stay here. You'll be safe here.  Nobody on the outside wants you. They'll only hurt you. So you stay right here, and I'll come see you and I'll be your whole world. Well pretend you're pretty, okay? Okay, babe? We'll pretend you're smart. And you can be important for a few minutes with me , okay?
     She nods her head yes

Persephone's sister -the unnamed

She is hideous. Her insides have slowly bled and seeped to inhabit her physical traits.  She is ugly beyond measure.  A disfigured alien face that could have only evolved from ignorance. A body in the shape of a blob. A soupy  gross figure that grew out of greed. A soulless stupid disposable thing that can't be considered female.  Unlovable and unloved.  Unwanted by men, made fun of by women.  She is paying for her sins through her physical molting. Karma will keep her crying and alone. Death will not have her. She cannot be hit hard enough to enjoy  touch. She cannot be cut deep enough to bleed. No mirror will stand her. No reasonable life will tolerate her. She is worthless.  No kindness can be found in her heart, no empathy exists in her fingertips.  She is bitter and lonely,  and those things have consumed her. She is a reflection of trash and roadkill.  She is a waste. She is nothing.  She brings bile to men's throats and causes children to stare. She is a walking self inflicted scar.

I am breaking I am broken I am shaking I am worthless I am woman
I am golden I am harmful I am aching I am charmful I am breathing
I am tired I am wired I am glistening Full of child I am holding
I am longing I am frozen I am cherished I am brazen I am  solid
She is falling, she has fallen, she is never ending sorrow. She is happy.

quantum love

      And so they meet. The universe deciding that she needs to be reminded of who she is, fast tracks him into her life. They barely shake hands and "nice to meet you" before he kisses her. He has kissed her so many times before. He doesn't ask for permission. She belonged to him many years ago. She is Bathsheba. She is  Isolde.  She fits into him like a puzzle piece, no uncomfortable position. They rekindle the love that they lost even before the pyramids were built. Their entanglement not even a mystery. Just a bond. In their past life together, she would sit at his feet as he would read aloud to her. He would kiss her forehead as she sweated through childbirth. He was more than a lover. More than a husband. The atoms that they share pull like magnets. Her shadow. She is his sin. He is her church. The universe ponders the power. The fireworks, the neediness, the forgiving. The couple reemerging.
   And in parting, a black hole is ripped through her torso. A heavy ache that results in a spewing of hot tears. Desperate tears. Begging tears. And he is empty. And she is purging.  And the universe, although aching with her, knows that time is everlasting. If only lovers understood how soon they will meet again. Funny how  they commit acts of suicide in an effort to speed up their next meeting; desperate to be given a chance at a new beginning.
   He will see her soon enough. Maybe not next week when she falls down the stairs. Maybe not next year when she is walking through Soho and a man with a gun steps out of the shadows. Maybe not in 20 years when her kids sit around her eating ice cream while she slips into the ether....but he will see her. They will stand on another battlefield as she lobs arrows and insults. He will read her a different book by a different fireplace. She will melt into him each night and be made whole again.  Her Porthos, holder of her atoms.

Devil absolute

There are some of us that turn to the devil for absolution. The woman made of flesh, whose needs are never  met, hates the golden white spotless wings of light and purity. She doesn't trust them. Her wants burn her so far beneath the surface that she feels as if the fire will scorch the walls around her. Her body wants to be held down. Her body aches to be enveloped while her soul rises to power.  A perfect moment of greed. Bring the ropes and tie her down while her soul vanishes into the air to collect all of your dripping sweat. Your blood. Your energy. She keeps it. She inhales the smell of your heartbeat and she keeps it. She goes home letting you feel victory, but she owns you. While she sits in her darkened tomb, her shrine to loneliness, she can feel you moving. She knows when you think of her. She has a part of you. She holds the power to watch you. In the darkness she can still feel you. It is what keeps her sane. Her wants scratch her insides until she feels as if she must be bleeding. So she makes herself bleed. She makes herself ache. Her feet pound the pavement until her breath is gone and the tears finally drop. The pavement has mercy. A reliable friend who pounds against her every bone,  reminding her that she is breakable. And how she wants to be broken. So enter the devil. A beautiful creature that is ambivalent to the pain. She wraps herself in him because she has already been through hell. What's he going to do kill her? She would go willingly with him. He would break her. Break her so hard that she becomes numb. Finally a man that can make her quiet. A man that can keep her quiet.A man who reads her sins like poetry.  He sees them all now as she lay filleted on the pavement. She stares at the sun as her sins flow.  The secrets run down her legs. The shame drips off of her fingernails. The blood that she took which never belonged to her, rises in a holy display of love. And the devil stands. And the devil kneels. And the devil holds. And the devil forgives. Because those who live without sin can never see the unfilled chasm in a woman. Those without sin can never judge, and without judgement, she is just another water filled, vile, grotesque idea in someone else's head. Sometimes the only way back to G-d is the path that the devil  used when he left. A well worn path. Perfect and clear. Shiny and sunny. He takes more souls back to G-d than any street preacher, and right now she needs led back. So she prays to the dark one. She feels his fingers wrapped in her hair. So unlike any man. Able to read her thoughts, and her wants. And he pulls her hair and he breathes in her heartbeat, and she belongs to him. He can feel her move. He can watch her in the dark. He keeps her. He bandages her. He owns her. She is put back together. Sewn shut. Scars showing. Unashamed because she lived. And life is about nothing but the blood and the feelings. So she comes into her new self with a little more light and a little more laughter. He watches. He hates this part. Watching the fallen rise. It's his only job. He takes the blame of dragging her down and raping her. He takes the blame for her self harm. He takes the blame for the drugs that she has to take to keep from letting her exhausted body gently fly off of a bridge. Her choices. Her sins. And he will carry them now for her. He will walk her up the path to the gates. He will look G-d in the face as co-workers do. He will deliver the broken goods and collect a bill of sale for a soul that is worn and vibrant and cloaked in the darkest red armor he could find for her.

And he will sleep at the gate. And he will hold her memory. He will feel her last breathes. He will write her name on his arm alongside the others.  Only the dark can see in the dark. Only the hurt can offset the hurt. Only the wicked can can dive deep enough into the pool to rescue the ones who just want to die. Only the devil knows the path back to the gate. And the devil will let me do it

How to (never) get over your rape

   I was raped. I was actually drugged and raped. He was a pastor. We had met, become friends, and started hanging out in the evenings. One night he offered me a Coke. I drank it. I was paralyzed. I lay there unable to move as he raped me. The saddest part? He was only the second man I had ever been with. The worst part? The part that hurt my soul? I would have gladly slept with him, willingly. I liked him. He never asked me to kiss him. He never asked me to spend the night. He never hinted. We were friends hanging out. He even did Bible study with me. He was not a part of my community. He did not live in the same county as me- before anyone lets their minds run wild.
      I was really confused and did not understand. I was young and I did not know about being drugged. I never knew that was a  thing.The part  that confounded me was that I liked him and willingly would have spent the night. I did not call it rape for a long time because I felt like maybe I would have given consent. Maybe my crush on him kept me from acknowledging how badly a violation this was. I blamed the victim. The victim was me. It took me a long time to figure out men drug women. It took me a long time to come to terms with why it happened.    I did not give consent. I do not do drugs. I do not drink alcohol. I did not deserve to be violated. It took a long time to say the words.
     I was more upset about him not "liking" me. I was upset that he would have me and then leave never to be seen again. I assumed we were building a real friendship. We were not. He left the next morning. He was in the middle of moving back home. Fun fact: he had a wife. I found this out years later. Yes, children, I cyber stalked my rapist. I was older and so very curious. I was still so very hurt. I don't think anger ever entered the picture. I was just hurt.  Months before,  I had left a marriage of pain. A marriage of anger and fear. How did I wind up being used? The hurt was unbearable. That's when I realised my real worth. That's when I let it all sink in. I was worthless. I was ugly. I was gross. I was less than nothing. Stupid. And that is where I lived for years. A psychic once told me that my parents had been good to me. She stated, "They let you live." It was the nail in my coffin. People who allow me to live are good to me. The husband was good to me. My rapist was good to me. The boys that hit me were good to me. Look at the long list of people that let me live.
     I lived for a long time. Lonely, depressed, fearful.
     I met someone. He looked at me. He looked me in my face. This was new. He spoke to me. On purpose....he must have a special mental disorder. Or maybe he's a serial killer. Maybe he's just making fun of me. Whatever. I ran away. I ran away so fast. Why  would he even be near someone like me? He must be confused.
     I met him again. And again. He was nice. He was funny. He was sarcastic. He looked at me. He looked at me one night and held my hand. He didn't stop holding my hand. In that moment I willingly chose to lie down beside of him. I willingly accepted his touch. He was so gentle. So quiet. There was no awkwardness or fear. There was no mirror reminding me that I was ugly. There was only me allowing myself to melt.
    Did I  cry afterward? Sure. Did I spend the next week living in fear of what I had done? No. I let myself trust a man. Completely. And nothing bad happened.
     Rape convinces you that even if a man makes love to you on your terms that something bad is going to happen afterward. Rape convinces you that you will never be touched gently again. Rape convinces you that men can't just touch you, they have no reason to touch you. You are ugly. You aren't worth touching. You are worth raping.
   Do I romanticize what happened that night that a man wanted me? YES. It was wonderful. And a little of my pain subsided. Not because a man found me worthy, but because I got through a whole night not thinking badly of myself. I spent a whole night allowing my body to be touched. It was mutual. I was given a choice. And I said yes. And yes...he did ask my permission.
     I will probably always see myself in a poor light. I allow a mirror in the bathroom of my home, but nowhere else. I won't have one in the bedroom. I put my makeup on without a mirror. I rarely brush my hair. I don't look at myself. I don't like it. I deal with body issues. I binge eat, I throw up. I cut. I am everything that a good mom is not.
     For one instant I was treated so badly. For one instant I was treated so well. I have to weigh out these things. And because one man was so willing to look at me, I got a little bit of myself back. Not because I got the approval of a man, no; but because I allowed myself to receive kindness without looking for an ulterior motive. I allowed myself to say yes. I allowed sex to be mutual.
     I allowed myself the freedom not to punish a man or fear him just because of what another man had done. I allowed myself to heal a little, because I allowed myself to see myself the same way he did if only for a little while. And it was worth it. Being vulnerable, not just in the bedroom, was worth it. Rape causes very large walls to be put up. I allowed a little of myself to trust another human. What happens after that is a reemergence of this thing called emotion. Emotions are horrible wonderful hateful beautiful things.
   We have a choice. We can see ourselves as our rapist sees us or as our lovers see us. Trying to navigate that  is the challenge  a lot of women face.
   
 

The invisible best worst friend

    Depression is a real entity. Do you know how when you lie in bed and you hear the front door open, you know who walks in? You know who is home. Your mom, your spouse. You know if it's a stranger. Depression walks in the same way. It does not announce itself. He walks in and looks at you and you know that "it's time". And you hate him. You know him and he is comfortable. You long for him in those moments when you have writer's block. You long for him in those moments when you are not strong enough to pull the knife across your own wrist.

 You hate him when he tells you what people say behind your back.  You hate him when he dangles the gun in front of your face at 2 a.m.  And you know it is a fleeting moment, but you know all it takes is him being right. What if he is right? You already have blood on your hands. You already know that all he says is true. You know you are worthless, but when he is there... dear G-d; you sink but what a beautiful empty hole you sink into. What a lovely emptiness. In the arms of something that lets you be broken and understands your pain. He lets you paint your hurt. he lets your write your fears. he doesn't judge. he lives just so that you can get to that dark place. That place where no one can touch you. He eats lunch with you when no one else wants to. he sleeps at night beside you while the TV is on and you watch BBC until the alarm goes off. He waits while you figure out if you can go to work. He tells you that it's okay if you don't go. He will sit in bed with you and he will remind you why they don't want you there anyway. He sits with you while you cry, and he explains that if you cry it out then you will feel better... but there's no end to it. There's never an end.You should go for a walk. Thankfully it's raining so you don't have to. You should eat. Oh look, the stove is unplugged. Too bad. You should do something. Who the fuck are these people who do shit?? How do they get up every day? I DON"T KNOW!!!

He leaves. And you are again boring and somewhat sane. He had his fun. If he loses you, he loses his best friend too. He walked you right up the line where the thoughts just swirl. You literally cannot hear other people talking because he won't let you out of your own head. But he can't afford to lose you. Not this time. Suicides are up, and that's not what he really wants. he just wants a toy. You are his distraction. You are what creates his greatest art. He can't do it. He can't write or draw. he can't build. He just walks around in rags all day begging for a little life. He is a parasite. A beautiful haunting parasite that is your best friend. And you hate him. And when he leaves, you become the person who travels, who laughs, who spends all her money on food and dinners, and life because all you really want is to hold onto a life. The color. The sound. The laughter. And all you really want is the good best friend who will let you sleep. Let you eat. Let you not bleed.

But you too are a cancer and a parasite. He tattooed that on your brain years ago.