The Tales of Virago-- A Beautiful Mess

     Words. Permanency. They cannot be returned, and they have been ingrained at a level deep beneath the outer edge. It is a core that has become so scarred, and full of contradiction that it is furthermore unable to carry its' load, nor can it begin to traverse through mangles of toxicity, and in its' confusion begins throwing out the kind nurturing soil it is being given instead. As if it were strangling its own roots that are being fed to regrow its' tender, fragile, delicate state that is so crucial to healing...      Words can be utter hell. They are the mantras of a dantes inferno that come to meet you in the dark during your worst nightmare, and taunt you to no avail. They tear you down as you have begun to crawl and see a spark of hope. As you begin to finally think that maybe-- just MAYBE you can- and DESERVE to recover- and have a purpose. Those people who tear back that shade, and make you feel so small yet again. As though you have ...

     It is truly amazing how much bullshit spews from my mouth when I am not careful with my words. To be deceitful, and go into autopilot to please those around me, and "perform to perfection." The daunting work on a road that lies ahead when you realize the smooth silk of words as they role off your tongue in this person that is you... but she is not you because it is merely a monster that encapsulates your very shell at what feels to be every moment unrelenting.      Breathe.     You don't have to have life figured out. I don't have to have life figured out. Fine. Speaking of which, I've come to learn that fine might as well be saying fuck you - fuck off because that is the crock of shit for which most people have come to interpret this arbitrary, middle of the road word which people use so often to keep a murky veil over their wave of emotions that scare the living hell out of them. Perhaps it is because the feeling of sadne...

     How does it feel when you spend each day- each hour- moment... second... in a distracted state of pandemonium under crashing tidal waves, wishing for the very things that are not present, or dawning on crooked realities that do not, and cannot exist for so many reasons that I cannot begin to name them all. To be so consumed in your guilt that it keeps its' terse, chilled, pointed finger around your neck; being sure to tighten its' grip just to a point of slight struggle when you attempt to become consumed in anything but the very things that you have chosen to keep as your own secrets. Your secrets are sick- and they keep you sick. But you do not wish to let these go because you are fearful. You believe that your sense of self as a person will diminish in its' last scrap of respect for yourself that you might have if you were to ever tell a soul of the things that you are so regretful of. You keep the devil at your back smiling because you are afraid of what ...

     I used to be twenty thre e , but now I am lucky if they call me eighteen. Time is a fiend as she swings her pendulum in a violent whirl that has left me nauseated. She has been cruel to me as I have pulled a classic Benjamin Button from the woman I was becoming with her pronounced chest- deep eyes, curves, and lion's mane of hair to match an untamed spirit; to a much more hesitant, shy, stand-offish girl I've become. I was not always like this. Her chest flatter, her eyes shifting around the room as she fears to look- for someone might actually be able to see her, and try to understand the pain she carries. The pain, or trauma and nightmares of her ghosts past she prays that no one will ever have to experience.       She fears the looks of the men as they look at her when she walks down the street. As they sexualize her for the meat on her body, or for her breasts. She is what her body has to offer the world- rather than what her soul is. O...