Ice Queen

What have I done? My cruelty and indifference have exceeded themselves… Calmly, pushing away, smashing, breaking to allay the breaking inside… and the breaking outside, heart, as if a heart were a tangible, palpable, breakable thing. What trick of nature makes us feel the constriction of our chests? The thumping, throbbing, pulsing thing.

And there it is, a heart in the form of guitar, its splintered pieces the mise en scene of a life being destroyed. How could you break something so important to you? How could I break you, so unimportant, and seemingly infinitesimally small.

The scattered pieces of your lovely, wooden companion and I am the reason, I am the reason and I am not reason at all. I have no reason. I cannot give anymore, I cannot bleed anymore, I cannot wait anymore. My monsters feeding on the fear of your flesh and the fear of you and the fear of myself. Alone. And never alone.

Then the circling back, like a lazy loop on bicycle, to round up the stragglers, a pastoral scene, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I am not the good person that I wish I were, I am not the vegetarian, but the carnivore, tearing devouring flesh, filling my body with poison, filling the planet with putrefaction. Another instrument of love and torture, neatly fit into the plastic trash can and carried unceremoniously to the dumpster. And the tears refuse to come, until the reality of what I have done sets in, and the flood gates crash open, with a metallic crunch… and your heart bleeds in my hand and I squirm, uncomfortable with this newfound power, but not pleasure. Begging, pleading needs, a life unfolds, a wife uncouples the link that pulls the train behind the churning motor, to watch the crash and burn behind.

Walking, awaking and feeling wretched, cruel indifferent, diffident, insignificant. Carving out a new reality from the wood that now lays smashed in a million pieces, weeping on the floor, a broken door. A whore?