The Phoenix

In the twinkle of my eyes in the dark night, I'm aware of her presence. Her eyes glisten through mine as her mischievous thoughts prevail. She has returned without observation as quiet as the night.

Now I know, she cannot be slain. She arises again like the Phoenix, indestructible. She cannot be tamed or coerced. She is without fear. Even death cannot hold her.

She is the ever present light on which my soul thrives. I cannot hate her. Her smile warms your soul, and you cannot turn her away when she calls on you. I shall never again try to resist her. The wisdom of a child is great and the folly of man greater.

Cleansed from the wounds of humans who know no better, she ascends to her seat upon my heart, the ever beating rhythm that cannot be stilled. Her immortal love melts concrete and stone like ice in the rays of the sun.

I am in awe of her. I could not destroy her any more than I could stop the Earth’s orbit. And all my sins are as chaff, blown away, as the bearer of the light eternal alights upon my heart made new.

As Deep As Death

After calming the little girl, she fell asleep in my arms. I laid her down on the comforter and left for the night. It was a night of torment. Fake smiles and evil thoughts were all I knew. Loneliness and a solid, untouchable heart was forming. Stone. Make it a stone that I cannot feel, I told myself.

When I arrived back at the house, it was nearly morning and I found the little girl laying in the bed. So much agony this little one caused me, the window to my heart. I will snuff it out, I thought without measuring the repercussions. I placed a pillow over her face and watcher her body flail. Then, when the body had stilled I removed the pillow. The last look of horror on her face was read well, “Why?”

I had soother her and protected her in the night. But in the daylight, I extinguished her light. That little light that shines from my soul. You are no more, little one. No more pain or sorrow. Nothing. I closed my eyes and felt the emptiness inside me grow. I had done something unthinkable. I murdered a piece of myself. What else could I do? I’ve locked her away, I’ve chained her up. But she always gets out. She always tries to return. Her smile is contagious and no one can resist her, not even me.

But now, no one can reach her. I’ve sent her somewhere no one will find her. I cannot even reach her now. I don’t know where parts of you are sent when they die. Only God knows. Perhaps He can fix her, but not with me. I cannot even look upon the face with the twisted terror of her last breath. “No one loves you.” That’s what the pillow said to her as her light was smothered out.

It wasn’t true of course. But she’ll always believe it now, even in death. Because lack of love sent her there. She has been thrown out for the trash collectors to pick up her pretty little corpse. Maybe she’ll look like a once beloved doll that was all used up and then tossed out when no one wanted her anymore. That’s what she is to me now. All used up. I regretted it instantly. But death is irreversible.

A Part of Myself

Three days ago, I was giggling, playful child. Today, that girl is gone. I feel like a part of me has died, been laid to rest, and I don’t know if it’s because of learning about my past and facing it or if it’s because I killed her during our marital fights. I’d like to believe it was through learning and not spite, but I’m not sure myself.

It’s strange not to feel a part of myself anymore. I’m here. I exist. But part of me is missing, just the one part. The laughter and jubilant part of myself is missing. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this. I know how to act around others and what to do around the house and how to work. But how do I enjoy life when a piece of me has been extinguished?

The Masks We Wear

When my mother yelled at me she didn't yell. She screamed. She screamed in such a high pitch that her voice would crack while she repeated the same thing over and over again in her rage. “YOU’RE SO STUPID. WHY CAN’T YOU DO ANYTHING RIGHT?”

I say that I’m an intelligent individual; but I don't always believe it. Some days my false confidence even has me convinced, I’m brilliant. But behind the arrogance and self-flattery I'm fighting for confidence in myself and my abilities. My husband wonders why I'm fighting the whole world, why I'm so angry, so defensive, when the answer is so simple. I don't believe I’m good enough for anyone or anything. I will always fall short. Mistakes, which are part of human nature, are fatal to my ideas and my passions. Deep down inside I never truly believe I can succeed. Every success, every missed a curb while I’m driving, every right thing I do feels like a fluke, like its luck. It wasn’t deliberate. It takes so little to tear me down that my husband was able to do it in a matter of two days this time. The third day, I stopped fighting. I’ve given up.

I use to give myself all these pep talks, but they had no staying power. That little four year old girl doesn’t believe a word of it. She knows I only lie to her. I tell her it’s not her. I tell her, it’s not your fault. All those words are empty and hollow today. They are as worthless as I feel.

When I hit adolescence I learned the word for depression and I wrote poetry. The school would have put me in preventative therapy if they'd read it. Most of it sounded like suicide notes. All of it said they'd be happier if I were gone. When I reached high school I learned how to fake being confident. My motto was “fake it till it’s true.” I didn't realize I was just covering up.

I still cover it up. This is why I cry. This is why I’m afraid to fail people, why I value their opinions above my own. This is why I crumble under criticism. I stand on phantom legs wearing a mask that is easily shattered leaving a rabid animal backed into a corner.

I don't know how to fix this. But I know it’s there. And all I can do is just keep fooling them with my smiles and my cheer. Letting them all rest peacefully knowing I’m alright when I’m really not. I thought I could be fixed. But today, on this third day, I think I was wrong.