She creates such beautiful pictures in her head.
The world and all
its timelines are malleable in her hands,
just like the gooey substance
that clay is made of.
She enjoys playing in the mud,
making a mess of something when, if she chose,
she could stand up and walk away.
Or could she?
She had really wanted him.
She had really, really wanted him.
Of
all the things that confused her, the way he made her feel safe and
gave her comfort confused her the most. Just by thinking of him, just by
growling his name in her throat, she called him to her. He would be
there besides her, comforting her, nurturing her heart and body in a way
she couldn't do for herself.
He had had good
intentions. He used fancy ways to express himself just to woo her. Just
to make an impression on her bloodstained soul.
"I like
you just as you are, little one. I am not going anywhere. If we have a
connection, why are you hiding from me? Why are you rejecting me over
and over again? Why won't you let me love you?"
Her
heart responded, even though her lips could not, " You don't know how to
love yet, my boy. You think you do, but you only love yourself, and
even that... not fully. You pick and choose whom you love, when you
love, and how you love. Is that what you wish me to settle for?
You said I am one of the few people you can tolerate.
Tolerance? Is that what I ask from you? Tolerance? Is that all you can give me?
I fucking love you, boy. Can you not feel it in your veins, in your pores, in every breath you take?
Does my voice not haunt your dreams the way yours does mine?
I. Fucking. Love. You.
It
fucking scares the hell out of me that I can love you with such a
deepness, with such a desperation, with such a falling and lack of
control.
I feel guilty as hell for not letting you love
me, be near me, touch my cheek, the small of my back, the beating of my
heart, I can't even let you hold my hand. I want you to slowly rub the
insides of my thighs until I orgasm my wetness all over your hands: your
silky soft, dangerously attractive hands.
Have you
seen how beautiful your hands are? Have you really seen yourself? The
moment I saw them, I wanted to hold them, to feel them stroke me all
over, until I vibrated and meshed inside of you.
Do you know how gorgeous your eyes are?
They are molten, alluring like a gazelle's.
You
are soft inside. So soft, so vulnerable. I saw you, I wanted to take
you in my arms and just hold you until you stopped hurting so much.
That's all.
And all you have shown me is facade,
bravado... and I can't break through to you. And, in spite, I choose not
to let you come near me. Because... you will HURT me and I am done with
hurting you."
He left. Because she loved him. He
actually left the moment she told him she loved him. It was puzzling, it
was interesting. She thought the boy she fell in love with would be
immune to the cliche of giving up the chase. She thought it was a
spiritual union.
She thinks too much.
An interesting exercise.
The dusk falls upon the town she lives in. She is tired.
Why did she think of him today? Because she did something she did a year ago.
A
year ago he married his soul mate, the right one. She tried to rise
above it and understand that he did not want to be with her. It was too
much for her to keep inside, though.
Because it was her
fault. She drove him away. There was something inherent in her that he
did not like, for which he could not open his heart and love her with
the soft tenderness she felt for him.
And so she bled. She made herself bleed and experience a searing pain.
"He
can love someone else, commit to her, marry her, make love to her
repeatedly, penetrate her body, buy her groceries, they will soon have a
boy who will look exactly like him... so why not me? Why was he not the
patient man he told me he was? Why did he not wait for me to grow
open?"
She remembered him today. Just in passing.
We
do not control the thoughts we think. They just enter our minds, then
leave if we allow them to. We are in a big cosmic soup, a melange of
energies and intentions and barriers and experiences.
He liked to play football and cricket. Those facts somehow aroused her at the time.
Sleep
is vital for the undead.
Their pallid souls revive with sleep.
Their
aching heads heal,
as archangel Raphael weaves his green threads
through the
night.
Healing the girl who still aches for him sometimes.
She is the one whom he could not love.
An unfathomable silence permeates.
The
veils are many, the barriers interject.
Rather than focussing on all of
them, she sticks like glue to the one thing she can think of.
She
cannot see.
When they do meet, he will be safe from her
and she from him.
Neither of them will speak;
it will be clear and
manifest in luminous writing.
Tolerance and safety cannot be a foundation for a relationship.
Let it go. Do not listen to the mind which says you are Lady Macbeth. Barren and bloodied.
It
is only as true as you wish it to be.
Mercy and grace are forces which
come through your sleep.
He is kinder than you give Him credit for.
She
bows her head down in submission to the Lord of the Worlds.
She may be
far from Him,
but that does not mean that she is damned for eternity.
Two things can happen:
both are acceptable once she truly surrenders.
Awareness comes first, though, my dear.
~ Sukaina Juma
9th March 2013
