I have thoughts worse than violence.
I asked myself today how the girl in front of me could ever be loved. In not so many words, I refuted the unspoken claim that this girl could be intimate, that she would ever be kissed, that she would ever make love. My thoughts are ugly like violence. To question a person's beauty, any person, taking the judges gown upon oneself, makes the insult of violence infantile in my mind. To exist violently degrades the soul and perpetuates the unconscious inhumanity that rage so passionately begets. But it is exactly that, unconscious, mindless, impersonal. A more virulent shadow of assault befalls a woman or a man when instead of receiving careles fists or generic bullets about their body, their person is picked from its anchors in the flesh and hung on society's rafters for the crowds to weigh and grade. Their jeers are for no one else; their attempts at repression toward the spirit of their target were formed and folded to fit exactly the imperfections so sophisticatedly detected there. You could not be loved. Could there be uttered a more detestable affront? Your lips, your hands, your body could not kiss and embrace and respond the way mine can, the way the rest of ours can. I fantasize and gather up and solicit the affections of the worthy but yours are to be spat out as disgust takes me back. Violence is the child's dagger; to know love and to understand its nature and its tendency to so profoundly move its holders, and then to say, "you can never know it as I do", is to morph the immaturity of a fighting adolescent into the scathing recklessness of adulthood. And for it I should author your praises on the parchments of my world, scribbling apologies in words that sound more like love letters. You are and will be loved, despite my ignorance, and my fruitless apologies abound silently now.
I asked myself today how the girl in front of me could ever be loved. In not so many words, I refuted the unspoken claim that this girl could be intimate, that she would ever be kissed, that she would ever make love. My thoughts are ugly like violence. To question a person's beauty, any person, taking the judges gown upon oneself, makes the insult of violence infantile in my mind. To exist violently degrades the soul and perpetuates the unconscious inhumanity that rage so passionately begets. But it is exactly that, unconscious, mindless, impersonal. A more virulent shadow of assault befalls a woman or a man when instead of receiving careles fists or generic bullets about their body, their person is picked from its anchors in the flesh and hung on society's rafters for the crowds to weigh and grade. Their jeers are for no one else; their attempts at repression toward the spirit of their target were formed and folded to fit exactly the imperfections so sophisticatedly detected there. You could not be loved. Could there be uttered a more detestable affront? Your lips, your hands, your body could not kiss and embrace and respond the way mine can, the way the rest of ours can. I fantasize and gather up and solicit the affections of the worthy but yours are to be spat out as disgust takes me back. Violence is the child's dagger; to know love and to understand its nature and its tendency to so profoundly move its holders, and then to say, "you can never know it as I do", is to morph the immaturity of a fighting adolescent into the scathing recklessness of adulthood. And for it I should author your praises on the parchments of my world, scribbling apologies in words that sound more like love letters. You are and will be loved, despite my ignorance, and my fruitless apologies abound silently now.
holy. shit.
ReplyDeleteyou just named and wrote about something that i've never even been able to name, but only feel, and you wrote about it with astounding precision. thoughts worse than violence. i've never talked about it with anyone, because i've been far too ashamed of my heart and brain for thinking/asking/even considering such depraved questions. the thundering intensity and remorse i feel for EVER even going there in my brain or my heart is EXACTLY this:
"I have thoughts worse than violence.
And for it I should author your praises on the parchments of my world, scribbling apologies in words that sound more like love letters. You are and will be loved, despite my ignorance, and my fruitless apologies abound silently now."
holy. shit.