Feel This

I have never experienced abuse, have never been in a relationship where I feel trapped and have never been chained in anyway to the places where I reside, or to my body. My writing has always kept me aloft, and the support of loved ones has always kept me strong. In this way I fly through the years – always gaining experience, truth and wisdom, but never baggage. In some of my writings, however, I try and dwelve into the darker nature of human misery, pain, darkness, not because I enjoy it and not because I need to express it, but because it exists and I never want to be anything but empathetic.

And so I give you Feel This.

Regards, 

Jacque

One can almost say that the body is but a wall to keep others away. If my mind wasn’t so kept, with brown and crusty bars, would it meld with yours entirely? Would I fear the open door of a cage as much if I weren’t born in one?

The legs are used for running, not toward things but quickly away from them, from the past, from ideas, from anything that could harm this body that shelves the mind, the soul. Arms and hands are not to open things, but to shut doors away from opportunities. The rib cage keeps away the heart from others. The head, which perceives, and is the closest thing linked to my mind, doesn’t help it grow, but limits it, it’s ideas, it’s ways of expressions. If we didn’t have bodies, we wouldn’t be so limited, if I didn’t have my body maybe I could love you entirely.

Does your body limit you in certain ways? When you scream and yell is it a malfunction with the connection. Is your head banging around in it’s own solid cage angry at it’s limitations, needed release and wanting more? When your arms flail around, creating chaos and harming the ones that love you, are they trying to close all the doors possible, instead of what the minds wants it to really do, open them? When your head cuts deep with it’s words, and piercing eyes, is it trying to cut through the body and into my soul, because that is the only way to do it?

How broken are we that we cannot work with our bodies, but instead work against it.

How broken is the world that they do work with their bodies.

I watch you, lying on that green and musty couch, against the backdrop of dark panelled walls and brown speckled carpeting. The rusty hinges of the windows, the nails sticking out from certain areas of the floor, and the paint that peels against our material possessions, are all symbols at our own failures; to each other and to ourselves. As your dirty teeth pierce your lips I am disgusted at how far we have not come. Your broken beer bottle still in hand and your exasperated expression only make me angry and worried. If I ever cared I don’t remember it today.

As one sarcastic and cynical comment leads to a new but familiar row, as we scream and it escalates into a match of the month, I think to myself, now this is passion. I notice the gun by the door when you glance at it. I dare you with my eyes to try it, almost craving that release. But if you take that gun up and pull the trigger against me, are you letting me out of the cage, or stopping me from trying?

We calm down. We close doors. And we settle once more into fake nests, looking out windows to scared to go out.

looking out the window

 

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