Written March 2013
She is not a locked box, but an onion. No one key opens her up to reveal who she is. A man could spend a life time peeling away the layers of her and never come to the core.
Even she doesn’t know who she is, engaged in a life of painful discovery, a kid who constantly singes her finger, finding out what is hot and what is not, constantly opening the door of that old refrigerator to find the taste of juice still as acrid as all the other times she did, constantly retreating into herself, behind layers of non-reality and deception to protect who she is or what she has become, unable to determine which layer leads to her real self, if any of them do.
Men, who look for a key, grow bitter when they cannot find one, lacking the patience needed for the more delicate labor, the gradual pain-staking pealing back, the act of discovery, the realization that it is not what is down deep at the core, but what is underneath each layer of skin, these tender bits of membrane that collectively shape who she is, like precious petals of a flower man discard in search of something more substantial, destroying the treasure they seek with each ruthless shredding.
And after all this time, after all those who have come and gone professing love, it is a wonder that she has any skin left to shred, and how much pain she is expected to endure in this desperate search for love, the need of it forcing her to return again and again, the hope for it allowing the tearing of flesh to continue, the belief in it, making her stand each new endeavor, thinking maybe this time she might find someone with gentle fingers and a gentle heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment