Bent Words

Bent Words

June 28, 2007

Your cowardice is striking.

The depths to which you cover yourself with rage so completely shocks me. I cannot comprehend it. You are that Ė a blinding pit of rage and fury. A spiteful marker that twists and clenches each day within its fist, so much so that no light, no peace, no understanding could break through. There is no room for explanation, no foundation for acceptance and no point at which you will even seek to relent.

And that, to me, seems so selfish.

What is worse is that you somehow expect me to make sense of it. Your sporadic sentences, your thin messages, your typed out accusations. I am not granted any sense of emotion Ė there are no nonverbal clues Ė nothing that can bridge this gap of miscomprehension, nothing that could assist me in solving your shattered puzzle. Just that wall of rage deeply set within your eyes. Itís so consuming and so upsetting that when I get caught up in it Ė thinking of that pithy gaze Ė I cannot make sense of anything.

I stop. I miss what others have said. I forget what I was going to do. I fold. I fumble. I care. Or it wouldnít matter. And, in all this time, you can only think that you have had no effect on me. You think that I have been resilient to all of this. You think that I can march on by and hold that smile easily within my features. But you have no idea, you do not see the immense struggle, or you refuse to believe, that every part of you affects every part of me.

ďPart of the job of being human is to consistently underestimate our effect on other people.Ē

You admit that there are answers. You admit that I deserve to know. You tell me that there was a consequence to my being me Ė something which brought you a final judgment Ė something which led up to these days of harsh reality. But you refuse to relay them. You keep clenching down on what is mine, playing keep away, holding whatever it is just beyond my reach.

How dare you point to me so calmly, with such condemnation, with such bitterness and allow THAT to be the sum of what I meant to you? How can your judgment be so unfailingly unforgiving and final? How does such complacency grip your soul? Where does this power of authority lie and what almighty forces appointed you in charge of my devastation? How can it be that you can strike me down with such alacrity? Does this really give you such extreme, unmitigated joy?

Do you really believe so strongly in your own ruin that to experience the agony of others somehow diminishes this dark fate you have CHOSEN?

How is it that you have come to condense people Ė or at least me Ė in such a way? How can you define things/people/actions/intentions/situations with such negativity? What destroyed you so completely, what was it in your life that made destruction such a norm that you feel it is acceptable to pass on the practice? What evil is it that eats at your soul? What is tormenting you so? And WHY do you let him beat you? Why do you let him stomp out your future? Why wonít you rise above him, walk over him, walk past him, let his madness and oppression go.

When are you going to realize that you can love him? You donít have to understand him and you donít have to condone his mistakes but you can, YOU CAN, love your father for whatever piece of goodness must have existed somewhere inside of him. You have the opportunity to make it right, to make it better, to admit the intermingling of love, hate, confusion, frustration and joy. It all goes together. It will happen. There is nothing of perfection that can be attained and so you much accept some of the CRAP that comes along with life.

You are not what you fear and I have proof. I have seen it and I have watched you and I hold pictures and memories and therefore I know you are not a monster. You are not ONLY the madness that you feel. You are made of so much more. There is madness, too, of course, but thatís just one part. I recognize that and all the other things that have joined together to signify that which is YOU.

I know that that anger isnít all of you Ė I know that isnít the end of the story.

I know youíre straight up pissed off that you gave me a piece of your soul and yet I mishandled it but itís too late. You canít take it back. Iíve already seen it. Iíve already shared it and held it and loved it and embraced it and realized it. I know you loved me and you canít just go ahead now and replace all of that with hate. You canít cover it up and bury it deep or destroy it because itís already there, it happened, it doesnít just die or fall or disappear. You cannot take back that time or simply stamp a label of blame on me and make it all better in your mind Ė that wonít work. Itís impossible.

There is no great rug under which you can sweep all this under.

And I am not merely the damned grime that you should wish to make go away.

I am the person you cradled and cuddled. I am the one you once wished to marry. I am the one you said was beautiful and talented and striking and odd. I am the one who made you laugh and caressed you when you cried. I am the one who needed your help and urged on your words and felt your pain right down to the damned bottom. I am the person you promised your life to, the person who held onto to your secrets and shared in your glory. I am the one who was coaxed by your frailty and uniqueness, who didnít object to your idiosyncrasies, who wanted to go all the way. I am the reason you almost liked Christmas and the person who was entirely affected by your touch. I was the sparkle in your eyes and shyness of your smile and reason for tender notes in the morning. I was that person.

I donít have to continue being that person. You donít need to keep seeing me as that girl. I donít have to stand up as that brilliance in your life. Not anymore, if thatís what you want. I donít have a problem with that.

But you cannot deny that once it was there. You cannot make me less than I was. You cannot just say it wasnít so and chalk it all up to a damned mistake. You cannot simply take a diamond, sweep it under the rug, call it a piece of shit and forget about it. That wonít make you a bigger, stronger, better person.

That will only make you a coward.

And I know youíre capable of more.

Written at 8:55 p.m.