You're "taking responsibility" for rejecting your mother when you
were a nursing infant?
How absolutely brave that is.
But why stop at birth?
Why not put your will power into the mix when your grandmother picked
up that gun?
You did it, Tamara!
You were why it all happened. All of it.
And why stop there?
Why not go back to the roots of everything evil in the universe, the
earliest muck in the swamp of time, the beginning, where it all
started heading south?
You called yourself into being, right?
Before you were - there you were, demanding to be.
Before there was a thing that you were there was that demanding
presence in the universe, wanting to be - so you could be damaged
before you could ever see hope or promise, before you could talk
enough to say "No!", so you could take whatever sadistic bitterness
anybody wanted to drop on you, to become this thing that seeks its
own destruction and hates itself for that seeking and all that hatred
increases the search and the seeking as you get more complex and
mature and time takes away the immediacy of the scars.
Why not admit it was you who seduced the devil himself, before he
fell, when he was still the brightest angel in all heaven, beloved of
God - but then you, nasty little seductress - pulled his attention
away from the Most High and down to earth - worse than Eve, more
sinful than any humanity, you, the true cause of man's damnation,
your fiery heart is nothing but the heat of hell itself, if it wasn't
for you there would be no suffering anywhere - admit it, you're a
vicious evil creature!
Repent, repent and feel the lash of punishment - hurt yourself, go
on, you deserve it!
No pleasure because you deserve none - no grace, no beauty in your
life - terrible things terrible terrible things all throughout time -
and the infinite falling down down down of everything good, and down
there down there at the bottom, at the bottom of the bottom - lower
than the lowest of the low, holding it all up with your sinful pride
- standing on nothing but your own inhuman moral failure -
T_ S_ - Evil Child.
Yes yes oh yeah.
Uh huh.
Take responsibility for being violated when you were too young and
helpless to even understand what was happening in a way that you
could later be able to repeat to anyone in words - how bout? Wanna
try that?
Can you? It might be a little tougher than constantly taking the
blame, all in all.
Can you take responsibility for fighting to keep your spirit intact
all those years of helpless confusion, when the answer was no more
than a tease of the truth dangled like a treat for the good girl you
never could quite manage to be - dangled from the hands of what's
real here, real evil, black-hearted cruelty that gets off on the
smearing violation of innocence - it exists, you know it does - you
feel it you welcome it sometimes, you've walked toward it over and
over again all your life.
Can you take responsibility for letting people who aren't fit to
bring you lunch for a decent wage tell you more and more stories
about how fucked how worthless you are without them and what they
stand for, how you have to crawl to be saved? Crawling - doesn't it
come back to that always? Humility with bloody knees and violent
bruises all over its back.
Crawl worthless trash.
No pride. Pride is the sin. And no anger. You have nothing legitimate
to be angry about.
You know what people do when they're so angry they can't face it?
They hurt themselves, they self-mutilate. You know what the really
brilliant ones do, the ones with high IQ's and complicated minds?
They hurt themselves in incredibly complex ways.
But pride is the sin. Self-love is the indulgence.
Sure it is, even when pride and self-love were all you had, standing
in the drizzling rain of that heartless gray city full of thorns,
bleeding from every part of you that could still feel, when you had
to create something separate out of your fractured fragmented
personas - the broken parts of who you are - and teach them, teach
it, that thing inside you that you still can't name, to love, and
make it love you back, like a puppet almost, working the articulated
joints making it talk, making it dance.
To love yourself - it's an art when you're all torn up like that -
stories of love you told her through the wall, the little girl who
waited in that one room of the orphanage you could never find the
door to - love no one else knows about - past the body up above the
mind, deeper than what people mean when they toss words like soul
into the wind of conversation.
Can you forgive yourself for not knowing what no one could possibly
have known, for not being more than a human child at the mercy of
living wounds, animated crimes, a mother like a bullet hole in the
heart of the world - with nice tits and a fine ass, and a hunger no
man no child could ever ease - she had the milk you needed, but it
was all mixed in with poison.
Can you forgive yourself for being born?
Can you?
Remember now, it might be a little harder than permanently wearing,
forever bearing all that guilt that you don't really, and never did,
deserve.