It is easy to forget who you are.
I have forgotten.
Who I was.
Before I turned myself one dimensional;
paperdoll, lined on notebook paper,
words forming my outline,
but still flat and white
with big blue eyes and
a dress
and nothing else.
They say that nothing is so
harmful
as self criticism and somehow, now,
I believe it more than ever.
I have denatured myself with my own
self-loathing, gone from grain to bitter ethenol in one long fall.
Funny how gravity lends its hand so swiftly, and how the wind carrys the
voices of the good intentioned away
from needy ears.
Time does not heal heavy wounds when
you do not let it.
Somehow reopening my own became a sort
of morbid practice for me,
memories resurfacing,
mutating,
becoming more strange and painful with
each reawakening.
Forgiveness is something that I seek
and refuse, in a self-perpetuating cycle,
blackness after blackness,
wings of loss and gain and loss again.
When you put all your energy into one voodoo doll, there are
far too many enemies left untouched.
My voodoo is the doll I have made of myself, and my pins go right through to
the bone.
Three red X's to forget, three to dissolve,
three more to prevent
rebirth
and one for luck....
But there are so many reasons
why I can never go home.

10/02/2001

Posted on 10/02/2001
Copyright © 2024 Vikki Owens