I stopped listening to my parents trying to convince themselves I'd be
happy here. The scenery will be great Mom. I'll make grades for the first
time in years Dad. I stared out the window and imagined a hundred thousand
ways of leaving, of getting my junk. Maybe I wouldn't shoot up, I'd want it
so bad. Just snort or smoke or something quick. Like pills. Or a gun.
That'd be quick. Imagining cost me the entrance of a god, a moment with out
the light to worship by.
The Sheep Herder, going by the pseudonym of Peter, introduces us and the sound of the One's name makes me fight the urge to run my hands over my body. Our hands touch in greeting and I wish to kiss the holy hand, wish to be touched, longer. My thoughts break away again.
Why is a fallen angel in front of me? How many clouds were lost in the plunge? What wrong did everyone else here do? Why am I here? And will they guess? Maybe they've seen my kind before. Maybe I stand out in the midst or the pierced and scarred faces. Maybe everything will come out and then what? Then what. I fight the urge to laugh from the sheer insanity of it all- I'm supposed to tearing down the green curtain, not speaking more lies into the bull horn. The truth never came easily to me anyway. But if I laugh I'll scare my deity away- I wonder again why this One is here, but maybe all things will be revealed. Maybe I won't have to hide; maybe all things will be exposed. And maybe.
And maybe I hate myself. And maybe I hate them for talking on and on and not letting me think! Why can't they let me dwell on a world where everything is perfect and gray and sedated and there are no thunderclouds and lots of docks to moor to and hide under and I can grow up to be some one but me. Anyone but me. Charles Manson is better than me. He doesn't do like me. And I don't hate myself there, I don't hate any part of myself and I can be- "Honey?" ask the ones who claim to be my parents but they can't be because they thrust me here, to be saved. Like I won't revert back to dark once they muster up the guilt to call me home. I fight the urge to yell at them, to remind them not to call me that, to let me grow up. "We're leaving." With a hug and a kiss they finally leave. And it's just the three: me, Colonel Peter, and the One with the chin spike.
"So Rowan, why don't you show Jaime around?" And I fight the urge to bounce off the walls. Wonder if they'll medicate me here. And maybe..
The Sheep Herder, going by the pseudonym of Peter, introduces us and the sound of the One's name makes me fight the urge to run my hands over my body. Our hands touch in greeting and I wish to kiss the holy hand, wish to be touched, longer. My thoughts break away again.
Why is a fallen angel in front of me? How many clouds were lost in the plunge? What wrong did everyone else here do? Why am I here? And will they guess? Maybe they've seen my kind before. Maybe I stand out in the midst or the pierced and scarred faces. Maybe everything will come out and then what? Then what. I fight the urge to laugh from the sheer insanity of it all- I'm supposed to tearing down the green curtain, not speaking more lies into the bull horn. The truth never came easily to me anyway. But if I laugh I'll scare my deity away- I wonder again why this One is here, but maybe all things will be revealed. Maybe I won't have to hide; maybe all things will be exposed. And maybe.
And maybe I hate myself. And maybe I hate them for talking on and on and not letting me think! Why can't they let me dwell on a world where everything is perfect and gray and sedated and there are no thunderclouds and lots of docks to moor to and hide under and I can grow up to be some one but me. Anyone but me. Charles Manson is better than me. He doesn't do like me. And I don't hate myself there, I don't hate any part of myself and I can be- "Honey?" ask the ones who claim to be my parents but they can't be because they thrust me here, to be saved. Like I won't revert back to dark once they muster up the guilt to call me home. I fight the urge to yell at them, to remind them not to call me that, to let me grow up. "We're leaving." With a hug and a kiss they finally leave. And it's just the three: me, Colonel Peter, and the One with the chin spike.
"So Rowan, why don't you show Jaime around?" And I fight the urge to bounce off the walls. Wonder if they'll medicate me here. And maybe..