Mirror mirror on the wall, hanging there so silently, can you see me here at all, or do you stand in awe of me?
See my skin as white as snow, see my smile as sharp as thorn, behind my lips so rosy red, a beauty grown, but never born.
My people love me, as they might, they laud my beauty and my grace, adore my hair as black as night, and see in me my mother’s face.
Mothers ash is buried deep, beneath the sacred Rowan tree, but should I cry beneath its shade, I hear her voice still speak to me.
Blood red tears soak through the ground, nourishing the thirsty earth, and whispering the leaves take voice, echoes of her cruel mirth.
Stepmother, fear me as you should, for though you may have fathers ring, tis I who owns his beating heart…in me, the conscience of the king.
Huntsman with your sharpened knife, you track me for the queen so good, a single kiss and you are mine, amazed amidst the darkened wood.
The beating heart, unlike my own, ensconced within a box of gold, and carried to stepmother dear, a tragic tale will soon be told.
By animals in forest deep, my body torn too much to save, the heart the only evidence, to lay beside my mother’s grave.
From kitchen knave to scullery maid, soon all in mourning deep will be, whilst I move through them whisper soft, feeding on the tragedy.
And then, replete, I’ll slip away, down to the caverns dark and deep, far from the biting of the sun, where spirits howl and duergar creep.
There among the little men, I’ll sleep until I thirst again, then waken, smiling in my bliss, to share again my blood red kiss.
The hardest thing for anyone with -any- “invisible” disability, mental or physical, seems to me to be that no one really believes it. As long as you are doing badly, dark days, physical issues, pain…it’s fine. But just as soon as you manage to drag yourself up from the bottom, it all of a sudden becomes a commonplace. Not a struggle well rewarded, but merely “Why didn’t you do that before?”.
They hold “normal people” up to you as if they were some goal that you are supposed to aspire to. “Normal people take daily showers. Normal people are social. Normal people…” Normal people can kiss my ass. I can’t think of anything I’d less rather be than “normal”. Normal people watch politics, reality shows, commercial/cable tv…and -enjoy- it! Normal people are “too old for cartoons”, even anime. Normal people believe everything someone posts on FaceBook, even when the same picture has been used a thousand times to solicit help for so many different causes no one can even remember what the original was. Normal people watch sports…well, the guy half, anyway. Normal people don’t take medications unless they have a cold, or they’re over 50. Normal people don’t collect “toys” from their favorite series or books. Normal people don’t read speculative fiction, unless it’s romantic, and then it’s ok.
Let’s pause on that one for a second…never mind that, as the quote almost said “it’s like having an affair with a cheese sandwich”…never mind the uber-teen-angst aspect…never mind all that. Since when did the paranormal/supernatural turn into todays fantasy romance? Not dissing the goth thing. Far from it. Full-fledged Fairy Goth right here. But seriously, people? Vampires and Werewolves in love triangles with poor confused women…notice that it’s almost -never- a human -male- having to choose between the woodsy, outdoorsy, sexy-feral wolf-chick and the sophisticated, refined, sexy-dangerous vamp-chick. Hmm. Maybe I should write one. Or mix it up. Gay vampire is a thing…and lord knows that Were’s and Bears would hit it off…so a confused young queer boy who doesn’t understand why both sides are attractive to him? *giggle* No, luckily for the world of Para-Romance I have more self-respect than that. ;p Besides, according to “rule whatever-it-is” it’s bound to be already out there. >.>
Ok, Wild Tangent exercised, now back to the original rant. It’s just frustrating to be the only one telling me how well I’m doing, and having to lift myself by my own bootstraps, figuratively speaking. And it’s downright painful to have people accuse me of not being sick, now that I’m doing better. Hard enough swimming upstream without the folks around me pouring poison in the water and strengthening the current by weakening me. I know all the explanations: “They’re jealous. They’re afraid you won’t need them. They need to be needed, so they sabotage.” Bull. In my case, while the first might be barely possible, it’s accompanied by so much straight out hate and paranoia that “unintentional sabotage” isn’t an operative phrase…it’s closer to “deliberate malfeasance”. Frustrating? Try infuriating, especially since there’s not a blessed thing I can do about it, not having that sort of temperament, little say the physical, psychological or emotional -ability- for that sort of nonsense. *shrug*
So yeah. It’s almost 5 in the morning, I haven’t written a word in weeks, haven’t even opened my laptop to play games…why should I, I have my phone for that? And so my brain rots slowly away, and my “curious appetites” get…well, curiouser and curiouser, if you’ll excuse the misquote. ;p So I get on tonight, for various reasons, and start looking at craft things. >.< Doh. Sooo many new toys!!! I need all the pretties and shinies! Mia and I are in a constant tug-of-war over all the bright beads and moldable plastics and jello-molds (No, dear heart, we need to actually -use- the ones we’ve bought before we can -maybe- justify buying more…no, not even the 100 count silicone gummi bear mold with the special dropper, I’m sorry. ;p) and so on, until I’m left to wonder…how in all the special hells of Hel do “normal folks” manage to keep from going insane and running ferret-shock through the internetz screaming “Shut up and take my money!”?
Also, is insanity different from creativity, and if so, how? Discuss. ;p
This is now over 700 words long, in case anyone is interested, and since I love you all to distraction…I’m gonna go and stop distracting you. Don’t worry, though…I’ll be back with more whinging and complaining and maybe, possibly, although don’t count on it, some actual creative work. Like a poem or story or something. Not just me/us rambling. Oh, and just in case it isn’t clear or you’re just tuning in to the Kyotzeta Channel…there’s only one of me. Promise. I’m BPD (or whatever new buzz-word they’re calling it now…;p) not MPD/DD. I just happen to have unusually talkative inner voices that refuse to stay inner, and since I’m my own best company, why the Hel not?
TTYL, my internetz!
KC, Mia, et al.
Center torn and ravaged by the storm that blew you in,
I stare into the void that hides behind your eyes of sin.
A distant flash of mercy serves to emphasize the dark,
then flickers, fades and dies without a sole redeeming spark.
Poised upon the razors edge of drowning in your seas,
to break the thrall of that dark call I fall onto my knees.
I bow my head and close my eyes and hear my heart beat faster,
as if it knows, and feels you near, the presence of its master.
And now a hand, so cool and soft, to smooth my fevered brow,
then glide along my cheek and pause…a throaty whisper, “Now…”
I cannot tell from whom the voice, but know that I am lost,
my life is Yours forever more…my soul the only cost.