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Words
I sometimes forget what people tell me to do or not do because my mouth, salivating and unruly, thinks for me. I've fallen victim to clumsiness as my foot finds its way to my mouth, where it seems to be at home. I don't blame my foot as I've managed to lovingly place it inside my mouth, more times than I can remember. Once the words have managed to come out, unthought and callous words, they will find an ego or heart or pride to pierce and the reaction from the unwilling recipient somehow will find its way back to me; burned into my skin to render me shamed forever.
You can never take them back. With a sword or a knife, at least you can pull it out. All that remains is a scar and a story to tell. Cells regenerate and everything functions as before. But words... words will stain. They will find their way back to the heart and make it ache. It's a whip to that child living in your head, hurting and destroying the innocence over and over again. It's like a strange babysitter that won't leave you alone.
***
When I was about 8, I asked my father if I was pretty. It was at this point that I thought I resembled an orangutan rather than a human being. My father then likened me to a red hairy fruit. The words he used was like a silver needle from the bed of his tongue to my brain - turning all my bodily fluids into jade. He was never aware that he was to have a jaded woman as a daughter.
It was about 15 years later that I left the motherland to the land down under. I left the comforts of my self-proclaimed jail cell (my room) armed with excitement and writing materials. I left with these things, the only things left in a room, leaving it barren. I left wearing the insulting silver locket my best friend gave me before he became my non-friend. I left my mother calculating the expenses I would be incurring in my years to live in that foreign land.
2 years after, I came home. A woman with a broken heart, more jaded and disillusioned as before. The last words that stayed with me were "He's dead". My mother welcomed me home like a thirsty man would welcome an oasis, hoping to cure me; hoping to heal me. Her words were being sifted through my mind, like rocks would sift water - making it clear and pure. I became stronger, more resilient and more cautious.
***
Most of my relationships were failures, ending either by them leaving me or the earlier blazing fire was doused by conformity and repetitions. Words exchanged were accusations, threats or pleadings. Someone actually asked me to love him back.
The man I married never asked me to love him. His words still ring true: "I don't love you because I need you. I need to love you. I need to be able to make you happy."
If this isn't true love, I don't know what is.
You can never take them back. With a sword or a knife, at least you can pull it out. All that remains is a scar and a story to tell. Cells regenerate and everything functions as before. But words... words will stain. They will find their way back to the heart and make it ache. It's a whip to that child living in your head, hurting and destroying the innocence over and over again. It's like a strange babysitter that won't leave you alone.
***
When I was about 8, I asked my father if I was pretty. It was at this point that I thought I resembled an orangutan rather than a human being. My father then likened me to a red hairy fruit. The words he used was like a silver needle from the bed of his tongue to my brain - turning all my bodily fluids into jade. He was never aware that he was to have a jaded woman as a daughter.
It was about 15 years later that I left the motherland to the land down under. I left the comforts of my self-proclaimed jail cell (my room) armed with excitement and writing materials. I left with these things, the only things left in a room, leaving it barren. I left wearing the insulting silver locket my best friend gave me before he became my non-friend. I left my mother calculating the expenses I would be incurring in my years to live in that foreign land.
2 years after, I came home. A woman with a broken heart, more jaded and disillusioned as before. The last words that stayed with me were "He's dead". My mother welcomed me home like a thirsty man would welcome an oasis, hoping to cure me; hoping to heal me. Her words were being sifted through my mind, like rocks would sift water - making it clear and pure. I became stronger, more resilient and more cautious.
***
Most of my relationships were failures, ending either by them leaving me or the earlier blazing fire was doused by conformity and repetitions. Words exchanged were accusations, threats or pleadings. Someone actually asked me to love him back.
The man I married never asked me to love him. His words still ring true: "I don't love you because I need you. I need to love you. I need to be able to make you happy."
If this isn't true love, I don't know what is.
