Piercing

Mint Royale - from rusholme with love

Piercing—the stinging shock, followed by a spreading stunning numbness. 

I wonder if the frog felt the sticking spines of the Scorpions feet as it scurried searching for the highest ground.  “Why?”, the feeble cry in the waters slow rise.  I wonder if he was satisfied by her answer, “Because I am a Scorpion.”  For the Scorpion it was merely repayment in kind for a kindness.  But he knew that.    

I had called her.   She wasn’t supposed to answer.  Not that I had planned for at least in the lovely stratagem planned in my mind.  She was protected by an audience.  As I had done so much talking, I wanted to listen.  So listen I did.   She found safety in the refuge of common themes.  I continued to listen.  That was her refuge.  Give someone a mask, and you can get to the truth, albeit in tiny tendrils.   Soft presses into revelations were made.  Like wounded animals the soft tuning circle of socialization had begun.  I gave her opportunities to draw back, she gave me openings to advance.  But the looping dance remained.  Fear ruled the day.  We danced around the secret and supposed while the secret remained in the middle and knows. 

But it was so good to hear her again, just about the everyday.  No epic.  No swathing controversy… just her.  Her gentle cooing laugh that I had heard so many times.  With those in audience I didn’t press.  I held back.  At the end, I dropped the ball.  I wanted to ask her to establish a communication.  As friends, yes, but even more… me as me, and her as her.  But maybe that was too much.  I decided that I would call her the next day to set up a communiqué.  As friends were I would meet her as nothing more than me, and she would meet me as nothing more than she.  At least that was the plan. 

The next day she made me feel young again. 

I was young again.  Not the kind happens when things ‘click.’  Where the body is made to feel as if it is precious—sinew strong and flesh tight.  Where the breath of life oozes out of every pore.  Nope… it wasn’t that way.  Rather it was a return to where all I could feel was a…

Piercing—the stinging shock, followed by a spreading stunning numbness.

There she was.  Surrounded by her usual suspects.  Panting, clamoring, anything for a look—anything for her smile.  The promise of a touch, perhaps a slight flash of a smile or maybe even more, maybe.  Just maybe.  She made a living off of selling promises and if the promise could be believed the deal would be sealed.  Friends, are fun while the money lasts.  Beauty seduces, until looks fade.  And then what does she have…  only herself, who she is.  Though that was what was the key to that which was most precious about her... to be that vulnerable... that scares the hell out of her.  Because I have seen that side and I know it is why I scare the hell out of her.

But I digress.

Viewing the sight, my body was filled with rage.  Vision closed to only a tunnel.  I am not sure if she believed I wouldn’t see… or if she just didn’t care.  No shackles are as bitter than those we forge for ourselves.  I was speechless… breathless…disgusted.    

She liked to dance.  In half-lit halls, her sultry moves seduced as long as she kept her eyes closed.  In rhythm to the movement her body would beckon.  Partners would emerge from the shadows to join her dance.  The bump, the grind, the passing trace could all be dismissed as merely a function of the dance—as long as she kept her eyes closed.  With a twisting turn she would engage another partner.  She could remain elusive.  As long as her eyes remained closed the dance could continue uninterrupted.

The only problem is that when we danced—she opened her eyes.  I saw her.  In her movements she had grown to tust.  The dance had felt too good.  She let her mask slip.  I saw her naked.  Scars and all.  The hidden, hurt little girl.  Never able to see her own beauty, taught to distrust her own body.  Believing that she could never be accepted for who she was.  Success could only be gained in a silent subterfuge in which she slowly sold off her soul.   That which is the most precious about her… herself… couldn’t be worth anything.  Could it? 

Piercing—the stinging shock, followed by a spreading stunning numbness. 

I wonder if the frog felt the sticking spines of the Scorpions feet as it scurried searching for the highest ground.  “Why?”, the feeble cry in the waters slow rise.  I wonder if he was satisfied by her answer, “Because I am a Scorpion.”  For the Scorpion it was merely repayment in kind for a kindness.  But he knew that.