Disparity

How

Is it so unequal that in this room I am sleeping away the pain of depressive sadness that clings to my spirit; in the other room ignorance and illusion about magic, neglecting the goodness of god. There is no fantastical beings occurring in one of the spaces, it is not mine. My womb is cracking and ripping through itself, tearing away the remnants of past lovers who brought darkness. My blood is black. How deep and sinful the acts. So much that my back is heavy where the tattoo is for keeping me safe from monsters biting at my legs. I will cut off their tails, I think they like it that way. On the street which way should I look? At the high buildings reflecting the sky, made of glass, or the man passing me in tattered clothing. Who should I give to a piece of my self. To release what is not mine, only gifts from the giver. I seek them often and wish to rid myself of the material luck that finds me. It is not my doing. Whose then? How can I say to people who are starving, I am full. A salmon plate, of bread and cheese. As rats scurry along my feet in the bushes. On my way to the house that I live I resist more and more. I spend time tossing and turning wherever I can to pass hours so that I do not have to return. The door is closed to that room. No shoes allowed inside. But enter with socks and you will feel the dampness of neglect. The cupboards are getting wet. Mould sits on the white plates, and at the bottom of the toaster. It is growing even on my heart. Where is the balance for the scale of life and death. Light as a feather I float between upstairs and down. The curtains are drawn to look outside at the ducks on the lake, where people are fishing. behind the walls I have to turn to empty shelves, carrying books of spiritual law. I wonder how many of them were read. My guess is none. No wisdom in this house, except my own. It is difficult to come to terms with it. I have been neglected, and insidiously abused. I am afraid to say it out loud, I feel it better in my nightmare dreams. I try telling people and they take the most trivial detail and run away with that. It must be frightening for them also. I am frightened but not paralysed. Acceptance is the scar. Far, far away I see myself. in the gutter to the right a dead bird, and to the left flight is taken by a blue one. Exactly like that, a split seconds difference of sight. Which way do I look. At the roof over my head or the bread crumbs on my plate. I can convince myself that it is not as bad as I think, because I think a lot. I feel every burden that sticks to those around me. It could be worse. Yet, I know it is not normal, nor what I deserve. So I have to choose which way to look. At my self or others. And when I do, choose me, I see that I am alright. I am strong, and a fighter but I do not want to be. How can I put it into words that I am a kid. There are no two ways to paint it; the child in me is screaming. She wants to be loved. Security and a regular family that eats together, not eachother. she is growing up quickly, and growing up cold. With no one to hold her, except scolded for anything small, which is chalked up to massive character flaws, somehow. I am depressed. Yet, I can dress up and light a room on fire. With fears that I am getting colder because I care for no one who is burning. For me or against me, I worry less and less. Selfless for no one but my self. Was this always the outcome? To make me ice in a lava world, where people destroy each other for sport. Empathy versus disillusion. In me, they exist at the same time. Things hurt me but they do not move me. Or things move me but they do not hurt me. Which one is it. this life, there is no balance.