I dip my hands into liquid gold. It turns to lead at my touch, shackling my wrists and dragging me down, down, down — deep into an unknown abyss. I am a fragment of consciousness at the whims and fancies of a dark, unyielding chasm, my heart hangs threadbare in the grasp of a faceless force with a thousand vicious hands that know nothing of mercy. I cannot bring myself to even beg for forgiveness. I do not know what I have ever done wrong.
What does it take to wring your being from your core? To wrench your hopes and dreams from your very heart and soul and marr them with the flush of adulthood, gleaning a glimpse of reality far too soon. I think I was cheery, at once. Airily bubbled through with crystalline joy, hard and pure like rock candy that fizzed in your mouth — an excitable child of immense energy. I was a light. Perhaps what was a sun can be snuffed as easily as a pinch to a flickering candle flame, I scrub away my name and the cheery slurs that grip its throat from the wall. The writing in bright blue permanent marker washes away with soap. The stain on my heart will stay for years to come. I now begin to see what I have done wrong.
We sit in a circle, exchanging tiny bundles of acceptance, decorated with whispers and other jovialities. They whisper about The One, a faceless-nameless-formless identity — an xy. A higher being. Reality coagulates into Him, his eyes blue and his hair blonde and his actions romantic and his affection coveted. Who is he, I beg to know, but they toss their hair and giggle. I should have Him already, they say, they all have one — everyone does. All eyes lock on target, poison-tipped arrows slung in graceless bows drawn taut. Do you not have him? Don’t be a prude. What is wrong with you?
Love is not an angel that is graceful with its touches. My heart retches, doubling in on itself in excruciatingly twisted knots. I am rotten — decay fuzzes and clouds my rationality, picking and eating away at the truth. I watch her hair dance in the sunlight and hold an apple in my hand. Dappled, soft skin and a gentle warmth pulses beneath my fingers — I am Eve, I am Eve. My breath hitches in my throat. The apple is poisoned. I choke.
The chasm hisses. I hiss back. The closet is made of glass. I scarf down the apple and spit out the core, the juice is sticky-sweet on my chin as I relish the crunch. I have always delighted in a cold glass of apple juice. The lead gives way, pliant under my reliance and fury, parting to reveal a single, delicate violet.
It is delectable in the blazing summer heat.
this piece is a creative retelling of a personal story — the story of how i came to terms with my sexuality. given that june — pride month — is upon us, i thought it would be nice to share a more intricately woven piece. there are a lot of allusions in here that are uncommon, but the literature lover in me just was compelled to add them!
a simple key to some of the symbolism:
1) eve: from the biblical story of adam and eve, she was the woman who (upon being prompted by a snake, the devil himself) decided to defy god and pluck and eat the apple he had said never to touch.
2) the apple: the apple is often seen as a symbol of sin due to eve eating the apple being considered the ‘original sin’, and all future sins were born from it.
3) violets: first originating from a poem by sappho of lesbos, wherein she presents her lover with violets, the violet has continued to be a symbol of sapphic (womxn-womxn) attraction. this is very similar to the significance of the green carnation.
Doodles, Dreams and Musings 