Miss Awakened from the Slumber (Inspired by the life of a forgotten face)

She reaches for the glass. It’s half empty this morning and not half full. She wishes for it to be half full but her perception is not optimistic at the moment. Understandable, considering the situation as her stomach churns with hunger. Insides feeling exhausted all the way to the outside where the world she once knew seems utterly unfamiliar. Scattered love letters lie across the floor. Scattered pieces of her life lie across the room as she makes an effort to understand it all in a different light. It is so much on her soul, her body weakens with each day from the stress as she holds onto the one last piece of everything so the final battle can happen as if it is meant to be in a hidden colosseum.

And that is what it is meant to do: weaken the opponent until she shows up to battle with a broken sword. Weakening her in ways where only an ounce of will remains flashing crazily like a beacon for all the judgmental eyes to see. Perfectly formulated psychological warfare so she appears unhinged, unhappy, unable to move on while the invisible chains attached to her ankles make no sound. But they make the loudest sound to her ears. The sound of efforts by others to destroy her progress with a kind of social experiment. A kind of bullying on steroids campaign that makes her appear as if she is wearing a tinfoil hat if she speaks of its tactics. Tactics that are designed to stay so unseen by the majority, yet obvious to the victim. Tactics filled with gaslighting, isolation, deformation, and annilation. It’s sad, she thinks, that some would chose to destroy love rather than embrace it. It is sad power is so much desired by some they are blinded by the tragedy it creates. Her thoughts are full of a realist perspective forged by the efforts made to destroy her. Her thoughts create an awakening the enemy never thought was possible. Her eyes are open with every last ignored teardrop.

She’s awake now more than ever. The twigs hit the windowpane as she tries to map out what happened each night. The map is riddled full of fake paths, traps, and a small chance of success. They rooted for her failure, using their power to try to solidify her downfall and a kind of codependency. A kind of role played by a Monroe but she was more like a Betty Hutton.

And the belly they wanted to grow now lies empty. Baby left into the skies above before it even had a chance to feel the ground. She can feel its presence looking down as she hopes some kind of justice can replace sorrow. A resting place not made of waterty nightmares but made of the most comfy clouds of dreams.

It’s like she’s writing a script that will end in tragedy with little traces of why hardly ever being asked. Why she was left for dead in a patriarchal crafted box full of intentionally desecrated dreams? She’s still trying to live the script though, with parts being played and created at her expense. Why? She thinks. Gotta keep up their lies and point at the truth seekers like they need self-reflection. Like some deserve to be casted out on an island. But the funny thing is the island ended up too expensive so the powerful picked a cage for all the victims instead. Then they methodically placed this cage in front of all to see, envoking a fear of uncertainty of the “culprit’s character. That could be me they all believe as they scurry away trying to avoid the penalty for having character, honor, compassion and love.

Fear is at the root of it all, growing steadily in the minds of the infected all around her. Everyone like her, separated from one another in kenneled like cages as if they are animals. Meant to be studied, decided if they’re good enough by a visual critique, then euthanized if beyond redemption. Hey! We got another one speaking out over here! Savable or not? Then a powerful voice answers with a mostly tragic answer of no.

By no means is she all alone but it is meant to invoke that feeling of isolation.  The feeling no one on the planet but she can understand this kind of unseen torment. Rejected men mostly behind it all, grasping onto whatever they have left of a woman they tried to destroy. Silently speaking their venomous lies about every woman in their past, while smiling in their faces.

And this kind of woman was so pure to all those who metaphorically cut her tongue that the blood will remain on their hands and in their heads. Nightmares will show her wrath while in dreams her touch will feel so angelic it will still be a form of torment. Because they all know who made her disappear slowly and even the coldest of souls will feel her storm each night their broken mind hits a pillow.  It’s a shame love cannot always prevail in reality but can in dreams.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s