Writing and Visual ⋮
"I just want you to stop talking."
You said this to me in the passing between of a dream wake state. I never felt such a commanding desire to close my mouth and I finally understood what you were telling me after all those years...
At the beginning, you undressed my soul and carved out the space where my heart used to be.
And when you redressed me you left in its place something dangerous.
For many years I was left empty and naked. And my body was washed with the salty brine of waves like those on the beaches of Singapore. But you washed me somewhat gently and filled the spaces between with bitter and stinging pleasure. How can I describe this sensation?
During this time I lifted my eyes up to the stars and over time I let you fill me up. Was it wise to give you so much freedom over my emptied and raw cadaver?
On a piece of paper, I drew how I imagined you would fill that space. Filled with flowers where I held a surgically-repaired heart, collagenous and thickly scarred. This was the best I could hope for. And yet what you gave me was much more potent.
I fractalized my thoughts and memories to cope. The image of my life in the mirror of my mind was broken into a million pieces. We broke it together and when I expected to be left to clean up the pieces alone you kneeled down beside me and helped me align our image together.
As you did your skin always only gently passed mine. Not as to disturb me with it's pressuring contact, as many might have done before... but solely for the purpose of re-piecing the puzzle in a labyrinthic maze which lead me back to, not you... but to myself. And there you followed me, cradling me as we went.
When the shards opened my skin you were there to clean up the blood and never asked for more in return. You placed my fingers in between your lips and in spite of your own fear and disgust of our bloody situation, you never asked me to mend your own broken skin.
Upon our arrival, you gracefully let me step under my own tree and watched me grow, patiently. With the passing of time, you approached me only to water my leaves and flowers. Occasionally taking ripened fruits from my branches.
We sucked on the lychees and physalis berries together, always shared between our lips. And sometimes your sugar covered hands would glide gently to my chest and in between my legs. It was always sweet to taste.
And when my fruits became too sweet to cope, you would simply step away and let your eyes gaze over the village to see the hills surrounding the burg we stood upon.
I just want you to stop talking... When strawberries become too sweet sometimes we have to smack our lips and squint our eyes. Anything too potent may sometimes simply overwhelm our senses.
Fruit however cannot become offended at our displeasure of it's bitter sweetness. It's simply gives it's sweet abundance freely.
In the beginning, my tree was already scarce of fruit. My brittle branches were aching to crack under the pressure of your sensitive soft hands grasping to my fruit. And much of what was given was already rotting.
Little did we know that beneath the surface there was poison in my blood and poison in my heart and all I had to hold on to were those precious sweet berries left to my name. And we all know what happens when we starve.
I dropped all those sweet berries on the burg even though you didn't ask. And I let my branches and core rot away and my heart with it. It was then you unknowingly knew which task was at hand.
And so, you undressed my soul and carved out the space where my heart used to be.
And when you redressed me you left in its place something dangerous. Your strength within in a beloved heart.
When I first thought about you my initial reaction was rage. Ironic, no?
You made me angry.
I thought about you, and your image embodied a woman like my mother.
I was seething with anger.
My initial reaction to you
was immediate and strong.
I thought, "fuck you. Just fuck you."...
Amongst many other things which I won't begin to say.
As I let myself sit with these feelings, I allowed myself to think about it more.
I realized that the image of you that I was directing all that rage at was not you.
You were sitting in the driver's
seat of the car, driving,
and that rage that I had at "you"
was you driving us into a ditch...
and then it made me laugh.
Now I see you.
Now I see what you are doing.
In that moment you were protecting yourself.
You cut off your nose despite your face
but I caught you.
Keeping me angry at you kept you alive.
It was the only thing left you could do
to protect me...
When I first thought of you
I wasn't thinking of you
but the things I was angry about.
You stepped right in and did your job.
I was thinking of all the shit in my life
that forced you to come into my life in the first place and somehow I even thought
that I should blame you for all those things...
Maybe somehow I was thinking...
in a weird way...
that you were the reason
for all those bad things happening to me.
I guess you work in a funny way.
And now I see what you really are.
When bad things happened, anger,
you came when there was nothing else
I could do.
My life was completely out of control
and you came in to try to get that control back.
Resentment, rage, contempt...
all these things you embodied
I know it was just your way to try to get the attention we really needed. It was the only thing we could do to try to show people how much we were hurting...
you were doing everything you could
to protect me...
The sad part is eventually you became the issue. And then you came out even more, anger. But not against the world.
Now against yourself. Against ourself.
What else was there to do?
When pain is layered upon pain and more pain... and it's just horribly sad...
My only protector was now even protecting me from... itself.... and now I can see you coming out even more.
It hurts... now when I think of you anger, I feel hurt. Not by you, but for you. And for me. We have been through so much...
You are my wolf mother
trying to protect her cub to the death.
And that you did.
I see you were beaten down into submission. Tail tucked and unable to fight for your cub anymore.
You were chained up and all you could do was scratch and gnaw yourself as your watched your baby cub try to grow up without your protection.
I can see now that you hated yourself more and more each day and blaming yourself
for not being able to protect me.
But please, don't blame yourself.
I don't blame you. How could I?
The world is an immensely cruel place and what kind of a world is it when it is possible to beat a cub's mother, chain her up in pain, and let her watch her baby cub suffer helpless and vulnerable?
But now we have to protect each other. Anger, you are my real mother.
You looked out for me when no one else did.
You tried everything you could to keep me safe and when you couldn't you turned on yourself.
But I'm here to look out for you too.
I trust you to tell me when the
world has done me wrong.
And now I can protect you
too by fighting for you.
I will make sure you are heard from now on and that the little cub is protected.
Let's see if now we can keep this little cub safe and help her heal the hurt
she has had in her life.
Alysia has been a drawer and writer from her earliest years. Always a hobbyist prior to the recent years, she has now began including her visual and writing work as a part of her multi-media art using her artistic eye and mind to inform her modern art works.
For custom works or printed art please contact Alysia at...
...The most authentic way to have true love in your life is by loving yourself fully and loving others freely...
Once I had a daughter
Her name was Solaura.
But she did not get a chance to live her very first breath, no.
Rather she left this world through my womb and
found a grave that was watery and cold.
But make no mistake, it was not my mistake
to make this choice that was a fatal save
I made certain that it would be this way.
I made certain that the only pain she would ever endure
is the pain that would brush against her soft undeveloped bones
as she passed through me.
But if not she would now be 7 years old.
By the time I was 7, I was already too old
I learned the world backwards...
I learned that the needs of a little girl never take importance
in a world that is just so cruel ...
and to this day I still cannot say
that this life has been worth it.
I speak to Solaura often. I tell how I miss her
I tell her that I am sorry she could not grow.
That I'm sorry that she would not feel the sand between her toes.
Or the ice melt on her skin in a hot summer glow.
That the earth on her fingertips or her first kiss in the sun
The first and last feeling of coming undone.
that looking to the stars to dream would never be real.
But every time I speak to her I tell her...
“baby girl you do not want to feel.”
With a mother like me, life would never have been easy.”
Such as for the mother before me and the mother before she.
Because not one of us were able to grasp the world with our tongues.
And those words unabsorbed, those lessons they fester inside
until they are passed down to the little ones and putrify
upon those who know nothing but their need for love,
and then magnified,
like for my baby girl
And so to this day we still endure.
Acid, stones, fists and broken words.
Being chained by the congress or a gas-lit road to our lovers.
Centuries of veils over our lips or blood between our hips
Words that would rip apart and dispose of your soft flesh and organs
worse than your mother ever could
No, You do not want to see the world I live in.
But I am lucky.
I have not lived the worst they say,
me, the abused, the raped, the belittled, the prey.
The young girl so desperate for love from such a young age
that she is used like a toy for little boys to play
or as empty space
that they fill full with the fluid of their insecurities and hate.
THAT is the seed that was given to create my baby girl.
And I the mother, of course that is MY responsibility to ingest.
No, see I am still damn lucky they say.
Lucky to not have been broken by marital rape at such a young age, but only to have been broken by words of shame. Because the insults I get for taking my daughters life away are much more desirable than that of her own fate.
The soft gazes and sweet words on the streets,
That moment when I held my fist against a man who is telling me “you like it this way”
or when I gave my innocence away to a boy wasn't intelligent enough to say
“the hymen is not a way to determine virginity.”
No, I'm glad I took her life away.
before they could reach her innocence with that same pain
Before they could reach her hips
It was all worth it.
YES I am damn lucky, but not for the reasons they say.
My life was a blessing but not for me.
No, my life was a blessing to learn the pain and atrocities
if only so I could spare one
my Solaura, from living the same.