Sunday, April 03, 2016

Day 3 - The Hostage

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The Hostage

“I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.” ― Caitlyn Siehl

Foolish, wretched woman.
That’s what I thought of her eyes,
refusing to see the truth;
the black and white of it.

I held her there, in contempt
of her childish delusions,
reminding her that she would die,
all alone, as we all will sometime,
and then her essence would dissolve
into nothingness with no light
to reflect into her lifeless eyes,
and no sound to vibrate her eardrums
with the futile mourning of friends
crying out in tormented anguish
too foolish to realize that they too
shall suffer the same fate sooner
than they could comprehend,
never knowing that no matter
how much they fight, endure pain
and suffering, raging against
the inevitable, they’re all fated
to die alone, just as she will.

Foolish, wretched woman.
That’s what I thought when observing
the light in her eyes, never dimming
to embrace her helplessness.

At first I thought it was spite
that compelled her to ignore
the black and white of the facts;
her God won’t save her,
the devil won’t menace her
as much as the truth
deconstructs her fictions.

Holding onto such fairy tales
is the mark of children and sheep
pawing at imaginary buoys.

I offered this foolish girl the truth
and gave her ample opportunity
to embrace the emptiness
and face her farce of a future
with the informed apathy
of enlightened reason, but
her refusal to yield to reason
deflected my evolved sensibilities
like a cheerful slap in the face.

This foolish, wretched woman
smiled cheerfully at me
through her insignificant tears,
and no sooner after rejecting my truth,
she embraced me within her arms,
as if willing her wasteful empathy
to penetrate me.

She smelled of strawberries
and pints of chocolate ice cream
shared with friends after small tragedies
and whispers of “it’s not your fault”
and other sentimental hogwash
society assumedly trained her
to lean on as ineffective crutches.

And then she spoke to me,
and as my eardrums vibrated
with her words that travelled
into my brain to be processed,
buckling my knees and
uncoupling me from my truth,
I cursed her for weakening me
with her poison, but I
dared not end her embrace,
nor could I stop hugging her back
because of her words,
which dissolved me into nothing.

Because this foolish, wretched woman,
once ignorant to my truth, now
rejecter of the inevitable
emptiness we all must face,
after enduring lifetimes
of pain and strife
stared into my painful truth,
embraced me, and
whispered into my ear,
“We hold onto our pain because
we fear how normal feels.”


  1. I wont pretend to understand this poem. A myriad of interpretations can be applied to it but the last two lines I can comment on.

    Holding on to pain is dangerous. It can become a familiar
    Fear of the normal.
    Depending on life experience and observations that indeed may be something to fear:)
    But in your case,the odds of you becoming normal is about
    the same as mine. NIL...:)

    1. I was exploring my depression as an abstract, which often feels like a hostage situation. Just experimenting with some new approaches. I appreciate you weighing in and I agree with you. :)