What’s in your box of darkness?
[ Leave a comment, or write it up on your own blog & leave a link. ]Published by Sinclair Sexsmith
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What’s in your box of darkness?
[ Leave a comment, or write it up on your own blog & leave a link. ]
This box of darkness was given to me:
Tell them you're gay, or I will.
My conscience won't let you stay
unless you come clean to the leaders
(your "spiritual authority")
about your unchristian, unclean
unacceptable
sexuality
Instead, I left smiling. I left my career of crusading (ah, foreign travel for the purposes of converting new believers) knowing I was in the right, and she was in the wrong. Or was she? I might not have left the place. I wouldn't be as totally in love with myself as I am now.
a glass of orange
juice he once threw
in my face. a small
jewelry box of shells
she collected
when on the coast
of england. a machete
from el salvador
upon which she keeps
a firm grip. a necklace
with a wing that fell
right into my hand.
and grief,
grief,
grief.
myths of inadequacy
and powerlessness,
the mother of darkness
a blackhole of a box
I unwrap that package
glimpse the veil
comprehend the machinations
behind the curtain
open my fear
light spills inside
the gift, a rebirth
tempered by the fire
I am stronger
a comb from his back pocket
the baby alive doll
an oak tree switch
the print before ash
the smell of her hair
right after a shower
knuckle bones
1984 world's fair tokens
bloody feathers
a dried up man-o-war
the poetry from that year and
also those years too
that clump of grass from my fist and
dried mud from my nails and
a bloody pair of panties and
old spice cologne
my heart because i forgot
and ache
I married a man and I still love him, but I don't want to sleep with him because I am gay. I'm trusting in the gift, but I don't see it yet.
in my box:
a ring with a stone the color of the ocean from the ferry on the way to her parents house, where I learned some of the ways she would never love me. you could only see its true color in the sunshine, just like the color of her eyes. and platinum, a metal so pure it can replace bone. it was beautiful. I know I made it for myself.
an ultimatum, a contract detailing the terms of the house arrest that would set me free. the cost: a decade, an angel, a family, and a friend.
haunted feelings of guilt that I can't attribute to anything. my inability to believe I'm beautiful enough to be loved. the occasional impulse to destroy myself, because it must be easier than being brave all the time. the hope my heart will one day feel simply and trust wholly again. (you can get that back, right?)
The feeling I get when I hate myself enough to wonder if I deserved it.
The punishment I seek when I have been bad.
My constant need to find an escape route.
The defense tactic I plan when I go to the bathroom in the middle of the night.
The fear that I won't be able to save someone else from being forever changed.
@ Muse – I truly believe that you can
i gave it to myself. i guess it contains truths and untruths and fears, probably some hemingway. tears – and the music to cry them to. but that's speculation; i'm afraid to open it (it might be empty). the gift is the girl who helps me open it, and doesn't mind too much what leaks out.
All the time that I drank
and,
sadly,
all the time that I spent in treatment and AA
since then, nothing has really hurt
(I don't think anything could)
and that is wonderful
perhaps I can take anything with a smile
people think I'm an obnoxiously cheerful
head in the clouds idealist
and never have real problems
the truth would frighten them
The inability to let go of what needs to be let go.
The feelings too harsh to live amongst the light,
The tears that fell onto my collar bone,
The whispered lies they told me,
The sparkling diamonds the world promised me,
The glamor I've achieved by selling myself,
And the path that is not yet complete…
This is too much for one box to hold…so I help it out and carry it with me always.
that i can't tell anyone
i am a sexual being
i am not the good one
nor am i Proserpine
just me.
and i like it.
The day of my mother's funeral.
Dirty looks from my mother's parents for my unending tears.
My father being shoved out of the "immediate family only" room for mourning.
My mother in a box.
Falling to the ground with uncontrollable screams.
The feeling of "this is the worst thing that will ever happen."
http://sarcozona.org/2008/08/23/pain/
Dana: I can feel your pain. Sending healing thoughts your way.
And on an unrelated note, I think your crushes on The Divine Miss M and Helen Reddy are adorable.
A black and pretty ring (that will probably never be worn), not in my size, with a single diamond.
Words she spat at me and never recanted
that I still hear echoing inside of my head.
The look of fear. The look of disgust. The look of hatred. A key to a car I do not own nor drive.
The smell of beer and the print of hands upon my neck.
A string of beads attached to her belt.
All of the 'never's and the 'not anymore's – except for two.
A bottle of Jack Daniels. Empty.
And a mirror, at the very bottom of the box, if I make it all the way through.
Contained
The lid slides off
I let you place only your fingers at its edge
But not your eyes,
Not yet
What can you feel?
Can you feel the grit of salt?
All that is left
from years of grieving?
Can you feel absence?
Does it feel cold, pale,
fading
or stinging, hard, and hot?
I will let you reach into this box
and find with your hands
what I cannot yet let be seen
In the bottom of this box
is my heart.
Aerope 2008 (c)