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Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2017
- Messages
- 4,122
So there you were, one day alone in the schoolyard.
You always made me think about that lovesick orphan
from the tale about that village that couldn't show love.
But they knew, your family, just like cats instinctively
knows how to kill, they knew the secrets about the soft
spots on the body where everything is sharp. They
knew about silent hurt without bruising and how
long it took before skin blistered above a flame.
They were equipped with the tongues that possessed
the eloquent art of inflicting trauma through sound.
You once called them the casualties of craving, the
consciously consumed carnivores capitulating to
the carnal caress of predators. With time your fears
became the rage of the rejected and abused. You
got new cuts from your bullies every day but as you
started bleeding less, they began coming apart at
their seams. The hero is always a villain posing, you said,
before they plunge into the dark caverns of themselves.
One day, several years later, you were dressed in scars
from the love of family and the kindness of strangers.
It had carved that sorrow and fear out of your once
glossy eyes. They were now filled with hunger, the soft
yearning was now the cold spite of the betrayed.
You moved like a wolf in a room full of sheep and the
laughters of yesterday had become horrified stares
and quiet whispers. That day after school, you stood
at the parking lot of the faculty, waiting for your tyrants.
You stood alone but your demons were legion.
One of them came walking by himself and you threw
the brick with the sweaty imprint of your palm and
fingers with murderous ferocity that leaked through
your pores. It made the sound watermelons do
when they crack against pavement, as it burst open
the side of his skull. Every bone in his body became
mercury as he fell into a pile of meat, twitching and
retching as blood gushed from his head. As he bled
out with the spasms of the epileptic on newly paved
asphalt, the boy with a fondness for scissors
and knives
came walking around the corner.
You told me your rage was blinding when he tried
to pull the shaving-blade he once used to coerce you.
When the black veil of violence withdrew, he was writhing
and screaming in shrill pain, choking on the minced meat
that used to be his tongue. You dropped the shaving knife,
the sharp sound of it against pavement the only thing you
could hear while staring at the gaping wound in his cheek.
The stringy meat, bone and the mouth full of shattered
teeth hypnotized you. A tinge of sadness went
through your adrenaline-shook body like electric shocks.
Sadness because of how fast your revenge was over,
sadness because their pain should've covered Holoscenes,
sadness because you didn't get to exercise your cruelty
to the full extent of your imagination. But more than
anything, you felt sadness because no matter what you did,
how much hurt you managed to deliver, you could never
take back what was stolen from you.
The shift from being the gazelle dying in the choke-hold to
possessing the jaws that kills it, it was like burning up
then being doused in dry-ice, you said. You gave him a
speech impediment and he's on Prozac, now, eating
sedatives and tranquilizers like sweets until he soils
himself in class. It's still a mercy, you said. The other boy,
you gave him a velvet-clad coffin and a burial. The whole
school was invited. The teachers, the principle, students,
even the janitor. Everybody, really - but you. Your friends,
the postman, his dentist, the supermarket clerk, cops,
even your sanctimonious sadistic parents that made you
the monster that everybody claimed you to be. In a
nauseating exhibition of collective grief, everybody
came together as one - everybody but you, who
said six words about it and never mentioned it
again.
"Fuck them and their Hallmark grief"
Their hands knitted in futile prayers falling on deaf ears
and hissing curses falling on yours. That was the last time
I saw you, the orphan with the sticky gift-wrapped heart
in her hands as a gift, rejected by all. But you never really
disappeared. You wrote me your story on post-its and
on the back of receipts and the stolen business-cards
from those that fell victim before your lacerating touch.
Your petty thieving, posing as a trick for midnight stickups
became burglary, home-invasions, armed robbery.
Extorting those that stole everything they have,
you wrote me one day, is not villainy but vigilance.
You carved a name for yourself in the spoiled flesh of
the criminal cadaver. Soon enough you were collecting
debts with dusters and knives, those nasty blades with
hooks that pull something out of the bodies
they're shoved into.
You were always gifted with the curse of violence.
You rose through the ranks, standing on the shoulders of
rival goons and kicking their teeth down their throats to
climb ever higher in the hierarchy of carnage. You soon
became a hired gun that grew into a fable, a myth and
a whisper travelling through the underbelly of the world.
The tale of the female phantom born from
mouth-to-mouth story-telling, from the prostitutes to
the slingers, the fiends to the killers to cops on the take.
You wrote me a letter on a hotel-towel with lipstick
explaining it was easier to slit a throat then to do a
tax-declaration, that bullets were stripped from the
human drama. Love makes people withstand almost
anything, you wrote, but pliers and power-drills always
managed to pull the truth through the gritted teeth
of the pitiably courageous.
I remember you once writing me on a napkin stained by
ketchup, blood or BBQ-sauce, that you would come back
home one of these days. You said, jokingly, but not really,
that you had dreams about taking the pretty hands and
fingers of everybody who laid them on you. One by one,
"eeny, meeny, miny-motherfucking-moe",
you wrote,
they would be removed them with gardening shears
that were "sharp as fucking spoons, honey". But you
were too busy with your career as a street-artist. Your
Mona Lisas behind the yellow tape of crime-scenes. The
six o'clock news showed me your painted asphalt-angels.
It was your vernissage, with your art for the world to see.
The outlines of the last defeat of dying strangers.
One day I read in the local paper and your father had
died. The devil and gate-keeper of your hell had
returned to dust and your whole extended family
came into the small mud-town like an invasion.
That same day I received a postcard
without an address or sender;
"Don't attend the funeral"
So there you were, several years later, that same
night, under dim stars eaten by neon-lights and from
the distance of hills we once bled into, cried into,
I watch you shove a metal rod through the handles of
the church-doors, with all your devils locked up inside.
Your family. Your village.
I watch you pour a gasoline halo around the house of
hypocrisy, where the god of nothing deludes his sheep into
opiated obedience. You look up at me looking at you and
the seething murder in your eyes softens when meeting mine
and you get the morphine-movements of ambivalence.
For a split second, you stood there, again, like the first time
I saw you at the schoolyard in ragged clothes, a busted lip
and something feral crawling in the vacancy of your stare.
The memory of a still serenity from a time that never was
passes. You continue to drench the church in gas and light
a cigarette. As the bell tolls for your tormentor, your eyes glow
like a deer staring into headlights. You take two steps back
and look up at the polluted sky, as if to mock the designer,
before flicking the glowing cigarette.
It illuminates the halo you outlined and the make-believe pious
are burnt to seared flesh and popping teeth. I think about
horses in a burning barn.
The bell never toils that final chime, but the screams and
the poundings on the locked doors rises with the flames
to lick the sky. It has the same color of your hair and those
tiny hands that have dug so many graves, stretch out as if
to pet the flames.
Then you're gone, again. A phantom in shadows.
I want to scream from that hill that you still make me think
about that tale we stopped talking about. The past.
How what happens never really stops happening.
I want to scream what I never dared to tell you,
that your damages were jewels that glistened,
like diamonds in dirt.
I want to scream that I'm still lovesick for you,
the orphan who burned down her village
to feel its warmth.
You always made me think about that lovesick orphan
from the tale about that village that couldn't show love.
But they knew, your family, just like cats instinctively
knows how to kill, they knew the secrets about the soft
spots on the body where everything is sharp. They
knew about silent hurt without bruising and how
long it took before skin blistered above a flame.
They were equipped with the tongues that possessed
the eloquent art of inflicting trauma through sound.
You once called them the casualties of craving, the
consciously consumed carnivores capitulating to
the carnal caress of predators. With time your fears
became the rage of the rejected and abused. You
got new cuts from your bullies every day but as you
started bleeding less, they began coming apart at
their seams. The hero is always a villain posing, you said,
before they plunge into the dark caverns of themselves.
One day, several years later, you were dressed in scars
from the love of family and the kindness of strangers.
It had carved that sorrow and fear out of your once
glossy eyes. They were now filled with hunger, the soft
yearning was now the cold spite of the betrayed.
You moved like a wolf in a room full of sheep and the
laughters of yesterday had become horrified stares
and quiet whispers. That day after school, you stood
at the parking lot of the faculty, waiting for your tyrants.
You stood alone but your demons were legion.
One of them came walking by himself and you threw
the brick with the sweaty imprint of your palm and
fingers with murderous ferocity that leaked through
your pores. It made the sound watermelons do
when they crack against pavement, as it burst open
the side of his skull. Every bone in his body became
mercury as he fell into a pile of meat, twitching and
retching as blood gushed from his head. As he bled
out with the spasms of the epileptic on newly paved
asphalt, the boy with a fondness for scissors
and knives
came walking around the corner.
You told me your rage was blinding when he tried
to pull the shaving-blade he once used to coerce you.
When the black veil of violence withdrew, he was writhing
and screaming in shrill pain, choking on the minced meat
that used to be his tongue. You dropped the shaving knife,
the sharp sound of it against pavement the only thing you
could hear while staring at the gaping wound in his cheek.
The stringy meat, bone and the mouth full of shattered
teeth hypnotized you. A tinge of sadness went
through your adrenaline-shook body like electric shocks.
Sadness because of how fast your revenge was over,
sadness because their pain should've covered Holoscenes,
sadness because you didn't get to exercise your cruelty
to the full extent of your imagination. But more than
anything, you felt sadness because no matter what you did,
how much hurt you managed to deliver, you could never
take back what was stolen from you.
The shift from being the gazelle dying in the choke-hold to
possessing the jaws that kills it, it was like burning up
then being doused in dry-ice, you said. You gave him a
speech impediment and he's on Prozac, now, eating
sedatives and tranquilizers like sweets until he soils
himself in class. It's still a mercy, you said. The other boy,
you gave him a velvet-clad coffin and a burial. The whole
school was invited. The teachers, the principle, students,
even the janitor. Everybody, really - but you. Your friends,
the postman, his dentist, the supermarket clerk, cops,
even your sanctimonious sadistic parents that made you
the monster that everybody claimed you to be. In a
nauseating exhibition of collective grief, everybody
came together as one - everybody but you, who
said six words about it and never mentioned it
again.
"Fuck them and their Hallmark grief"
Their hands knitted in futile prayers falling on deaf ears
and hissing curses falling on yours. That was the last time
I saw you, the orphan with the sticky gift-wrapped heart
in her hands as a gift, rejected by all. But you never really
disappeared. You wrote me your story on post-its and
on the back of receipts and the stolen business-cards
from those that fell victim before your lacerating touch.
Your petty thieving, posing as a trick for midnight stickups
became burglary, home-invasions, armed robbery.
Extorting those that stole everything they have,
you wrote me one day, is not villainy but vigilance.
You carved a name for yourself in the spoiled flesh of
the criminal cadaver. Soon enough you were collecting
debts with dusters and knives, those nasty blades with
hooks that pull something out of the bodies
they're shoved into.
You were always gifted with the curse of violence.
You rose through the ranks, standing on the shoulders of
rival goons and kicking their teeth down their throats to
climb ever higher in the hierarchy of carnage. You soon
became a hired gun that grew into a fable, a myth and
a whisper travelling through the underbelly of the world.
The tale of the female phantom born from
mouth-to-mouth story-telling, from the prostitutes to
the slingers, the fiends to the killers to cops on the take.
You wrote me a letter on a hotel-towel with lipstick
explaining it was easier to slit a throat then to do a
tax-declaration, that bullets were stripped from the
human drama. Love makes people withstand almost
anything, you wrote, but pliers and power-drills always
managed to pull the truth through the gritted teeth
of the pitiably courageous.
I remember you once writing me on a napkin stained by
ketchup, blood or BBQ-sauce, that you would come back
home one of these days. You said, jokingly, but not really,
that you had dreams about taking the pretty hands and
fingers of everybody who laid them on you. One by one,
"eeny, meeny, miny-motherfucking-moe",
you wrote,
they would be removed them with gardening shears
that were "sharp as fucking spoons, honey". But you
were too busy with your career as a street-artist. Your
Mona Lisas behind the yellow tape of crime-scenes. The
six o'clock news showed me your painted asphalt-angels.
It was your vernissage, with your art for the world to see.
The outlines of the last defeat of dying strangers.
One day I read in the local paper and your father had
died. The devil and gate-keeper of your hell had
returned to dust and your whole extended family
came into the small mud-town like an invasion.
That same day I received a postcard
without an address or sender;
"Don't attend the funeral"
So there you were, several years later, that same
night, under dim stars eaten by neon-lights and from
the distance of hills we once bled into, cried into,
I watch you shove a metal rod through the handles of
the church-doors, with all your devils locked up inside.
Your family. Your village.
I watch you pour a gasoline halo around the house of
hypocrisy, where the god of nothing deludes his sheep into
opiated obedience. You look up at me looking at you and
the seething murder in your eyes softens when meeting mine
and you get the morphine-movements of ambivalence.
For a split second, you stood there, again, like the first time
I saw you at the schoolyard in ragged clothes, a busted lip
and something feral crawling in the vacancy of your stare.
The memory of a still serenity from a time that never was
passes. You continue to drench the church in gas and light
a cigarette. As the bell tolls for your tormentor, your eyes glow
like a deer staring into headlights. You take two steps back
and look up at the polluted sky, as if to mock the designer,
before flicking the glowing cigarette.
It illuminates the halo you outlined and the make-believe pious
are burnt to seared flesh and popping teeth. I think about
horses in a burning barn.
The bell never toils that final chime, but the screams and
the poundings on the locked doors rises with the flames
to lick the sky. It has the same color of your hair and those
tiny hands that have dug so many graves, stretch out as if
to pet the flames.
Then you're gone, again. A phantom in shadows.
I want to scream from that hill that you still make me think
about that tale we stopped talking about. The past.
How what happens never really stops happening.
I want to scream what I never dared to tell you,
that your damages were jewels that glistened,
like diamonds in dirt.
I want to scream that I'm still lovesick for you,
the orphan who burned down her village
to feel its warmth.
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