Over my pause in blogging I had the chance to somewhat channel my feelings about heroine. Especially since we had a very real emotional interaction on Christmas morning. I use the feminine pro-noun, because I imagine that if heroine were to somehow materialize in human form, it would be an overly sexualized biological female. However, this could just be my personal perception. This is the skeleton of something I am trying to flesh out right now.
When I was five, I looked for you in corners of my mother's bedroom
like I looked for hidden Christmas presents.
Searching through her drawers, I found you in the make-up bag
Encased in flowers, I still didn't like how you were wrapped in tin foil.
Seeing them laugh, cry
I thought our face to face introduction would be more pleasant
In the moment that I found you. I wanted to destroy you.
Why was I different?
Why was I different,
As you raced through his veins
As you danced in his eyes that faced toward the back of his skull
As she took a gun and merrily threatened our existence.
And this is the point where I realize that poetry is not my strength and I choose to revert back to prose.
Heroine, I used to look for you like you were purposefully hidden. I sought you out. And then I ran. I ran from a 13 year old boy who thought you were his dearest friend. Ran from the spotlight you put on us. 3.000 miles and you still disorient my direction at times.
And now on Christmas morning, you present yourself. I don't look for you anymore in my mother's possessions. Is that why you replaced the gifts of this time with your presence?
(This is still a work in progress and I am trying to work it out within myself. )
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