Curses

I have only been taught one thing: curses.

“The world is a hostile place.

Drive the car like everyone else is a maniac.

Keep a key between your fingers when you walk home in the dark.”

But what about the daylight?

The white sky still burns as it distributes into nightfall. Those that are nestled at home begin to light their seasoned candles. Streetlights illuminate themselves.

As I traverse through it, I can tell from the world’s bearing that it will rain soon. Something in the wind.

I am prepared. I am always prepared.

Peace is a beggar’s bargain when you’re your only known source of it. Though even then I often struggle to find it in myself.

What does it really look like, anyway?

I find myself panhandling for morsels of it in the faces of passing men.

“Touch me, touch me, touch me.

Say a sweet word.

Tell me they were wrong.

Tell me that I’m safe to be me.”

Take the man at the street corner with the orange bouquet…

He smiles at the air, awaiting the moment when he can spark a happiness. I instantly like him. You can sense he is not bloodless.

Someone will be receiving that.

Not me.

I am so tired of having to ask to be loved.

It’s supposed to rain but the clouds just hang and linger.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

Waiting for what? Why don’t they cast down their power? Why don’t they demonstrate who they really are?

Who they really love?

In between bated breaths, yellow trees rest softly against dimming gray skies. I carry my enormous umbrella, swinging it proudly as it strengthens my strides.

I feel I must be a weary warrior. Here I am, bearing my sword. My muscles swell with power.

I have fought a great battle.

An arduous quest for the ones with the hands that can soften the stone and bring me bubbling and effervescent.

Can’t someone spot the eye of the tornado?

Put a needle through it. Tell me, “This is the center, this is the center. All the rest is noise. And I will stand here with you as the chaos moves around us.”

I’m tired of cooing with sugar, a walking birdsong, who sways her plumage hips.

I want to be a force of nature and still be loved for that.

Perhaps flowers only go to the women that are more demure. Less commanding. Less protective. Eager and open. Not seeking the storm.

They get all the love notes…

All the rings…

Me? I’ll have to marry myself first.

Oh, isn’t there another way? Can’t I live and breathe without this? Are my only options really to be soldier, madonna, whore?

These thoughts drag me down like raindrops. I feel like a wounded animal left out in the cold. Cagey and untrusting. I am the beast in need of beauty.

I see a blackbird fly through the sky. It catches me. It does not roam in a straight line. It twists and turns, trying out new directions. No one there to scare it from experimenting.

I return home, my feet longing to be free of their shackles. And on my way through the door, as the sky picked up a lavender lacquer and the wind began to bustle, I couldn’t help but wonder if that had something to do with me.

The next day when I go out, I see a bird, a blackbird, dead with its arms spread wide, embracing a bag of trash.

Again, I can’t help but wonder…

I am my usual armored self out in a mutant world when suddenly, out of sky’s blue, an old man passes me by.

He smiles at me innocently, nodding his small bird’s head.

As if he’s seeing a familiar friend.

I mimic the gesture and as we pass in distance, I feel myself…

Melting, melting, melting.

Hot tears stream down my cheeks.

I breathe.

A monologue permeates through my head:

"Can’t it always be this simple?

Love everybody.

Every thing.

Every woman.

Every man.

Every cloud.

Every tear from heaven’s eye.

No matter what.

No matter who.

Your defenses are made up.

You need not a thing.

Be here, be here, be here.

Curses can be broken."