The Mother's Power

Christopher D. Eldridge © 1999

You were a corpse among the living, blue lips, white paper skin. You were loveless, soulless. I only wanted to be held, to be loved, but your tepid touch never pleased. Your prevaricating tale could not hide your surrogate lies.

I close my eyes and your voice is a cackle, a malevolent shriek, my voice a whimper. My weakness cowers before your frightening visage, your omnipotence that has broken me. Your madness, your freakish indifference is the cause of my maladaptive existence. But how could I know any different? I emerged from the womb, trying to connect to those placid eyes, those wells of insurmountable emptiness. Doing so caused a stoppage of time.

You never realized your godly powers, the powers you had to create and destroy. You brought purity into this world, a purity your wickedness tainted. I reached out a symbiotic hand, a desire for affection and warmth, for a closeness I would not receive. Your sustenance was of the wrong kind, a nourishment that was only enough for survival. Did you not know your vicious cycle? How could you let your foolishness catch my helplessness in a cycle doomed to repeat once again?

My emptiness you can never fix, for you failed to realize the beginning of the emergence, the constant state of symbiosis that you left me in to suffer. In grappling for my own, I must fear my own demise, an unraveling of the substance that holds me together. Now I am like you, a corpse pretending to live. See me smile? See my laugh?

I will forever long to have you; your idiocy has developed my ignorance into a longing for the unattainable. You, you of all people have caused me to live forever in some unrealistic dream, in a world I may never wake from. Do you think life is such a game? A scrap of paper you can whim into the wastebasket and forget that an entire tale was written upon it?

You mother, you creator, you who failed to finish what you started. The very moment you touched me, you dropped me, and I shattered into a thousand broken pieces. I can never be made whole.

It which is I, in which I means nothing but you, for you and I are still one, a one that you always thought were two, not one but two, a two that was doomed even when there was still one.