The words slip out, unfettered, unguarded. There's nothing I can do to stop them. They've already taken flight.

It hits her like a slap in the face, the wrinkles that had been so carefully restrained resurge at full force. More words of her own are hot on the heels of mine, racing to replace her belabored breath.

I stand there strong, a defiant child who has been broken too many times to bear the weight of another cautious silence, where the oppression submerges me, dares me to overcome submission. The moment belongs to me, not her, never her, never should it belong to her, where she would twist and turn it all under her control. I gather it between my fingertips and place it in my pockets. I sidestep her swings; though the sentences strung full of slights do not fail to claw at my ears, gnaw at my intestines, hammer at my heart.

Sometimes I really do wonder if she was the reason. Oh, no doubt I hate him too, on some level, although feelings of pity have lately blended into this equation. But did my comment only cause such an effect because it was simply horrible to say, or because it was true?

The world shakes and stings, as she takes control of the moment, takes advantage of it. The red from my cheek comes away on my cramped white fingers, so tangible, so concrete, but my entire life seems like a dream, and I am wrapped up in it's scarred, surreal, swirling bubble.

My rage shrinks away, so that when the final blow comes, I am neither surprised nor immediately affected by it. This word is her favourite, and seems to be alive itself, coloured grey, smelling of death, sounding like the heavy thud of a metal block on a single corpse. Failure writhes in the air, and I patiently await its damage, the tearing inside filling my brain.

I am not, I am not, I scream to deaf ears. The last thing I am is him, not in my voice, my hair, my face or my heritage. Certainly not my life path. Perhaps she can even dictate the moment, but this she absolutely cannot snatch away.

I don't know what to do. My head just brushes the underbelly of the dressing table, and I use my sleeve to wipe away a few rogue tears that cling to my chin, sticky and unmoving, a reminder of everything. A few hours pass, time chugging along resolutely, and I know she will be here soon.

A knock at the door rewards my waiting, and in she pops, wordlessly embracing me, her precious daughter, whom she loves, and is so fond of.

I look beyond, still in her tenuous thrall, and know that I have packed my bags, and am running to where only the stars may chase my ankles, and where I choose to sleep among the undulating night grasses. A sigh is released from my chest, and I feel relief humming in my blood, because I know.

I fold the moment in between my fingers.



Sorry, no skandar picspam today.