Wheeling Weak Week: Day 5 of the Spectrum

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    Who knelt before you and whispered, “This will be the best choice for you, clearly,” to which you complied? Why was my pain your punishment of things I barely did wrong? Echoing through my mind, “when we get home you’re going to be punished,” and then you would invite over the torturing tools to build my skin’s prison. Dicks, hands, mouths, tongues, eyes, childhood genitalia; control was the only thing I didn’t know well at that point. You could have been the dam that saved me from a rapid tongue, but instead you were the condom that broke through the teeth.

    My fear idol, you provided the unknown with a greeting card smile of a greater ape than me. You fed with blood the fear of the deep. You blew onto the irrationalities of being swept away with cardboard, it never took you much at all to instill how much the world wanted to haunt me. How could I not recognize that you were the ghost of the Waste Land?

    Constantly shrouded in shame, you reckoned I’d always be frayed. V meant nothing then and nothing now, your conquering of me was your brightest virtue, and probably still your greatest pride! But why did you hide me when they had already taken everything, as if I really had anything left to show for myself? To my left, “maybe there is something left she can do to me,” and to my right, “everything I’ve done to my own.” We agree, I should agree too so we can hold hands and forgive you as we die. After all, you’re not to blame, but you will end when I conclude.

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