Wrapped in a sash of tumbled boulder here lie my path. My flesh has turned into stone and I miss its freedom to feel. The crossroads are coming back as Hecate race toward me. She has elegance and poise, darkness and light under her nails, fake and real options in the water of her pupils and neglect versus love in the curves of her thighs. As the concrete crumble within the dream, an iron backbone is what I need, for you and me for them.
“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me.” Daphne du Maurier
I can’t enter, the gates are closed and I am not sure I want to find a way now just because you don’t either. I know I am alive and this more than I could expect. I am here in front of you as I was in the scream of my parents when I left childhood. I am the one who survived and what I can give is so much more than who I am.
Your storybook is wrapped up in a shroud where they were once the glow of all the caresses you allowed yourself to give.
Their ghosts are looking down on me, they are called as witnesses of what could, what was once possible. Both are there, opposite twins witnessing the memories of who I will not allowed to be.
Stone is cold and still but it isn’t dirt and I am not buried yet.