Scars

Scars

Thick, pulsating, red, bulging beatings to my heart and soul. You feel too much, you want too much, you need too much. Too much. Deep down the mother scar, the crack of the bone, the tear of skin, the blood that bleeds from the heart. Love me, says the little girl, love me, pick me up and cradle me. But there is no mother to be found. No mother except the one sitting on the edge of the toilet slitting her wrists…she runs through the streets naked screaming, tearing her hair from her head, then she runs after me like an alligator opening her big jaw and sharp teeth and pulls me under the tub water, I can’t breathe, help…I am drowning in the snoot and goo of the darkness of my mother’s mental illness. She wants to destroy her own children, she is Medea, murdering her children.

What do you carry

I carry a hump on my back that looks like a mountain that rises from beyond the horizon. This is the hump that carries self hatred, resentments and jealousies...of loneliness and despair. It comes from the last time I died from the death of my sister. The last time I put the flower on my mother’s dead body…The last time my father held my arm before he died and said, “I love you.” A declaration he never expressed while alive. I carry the black hole of hunger for eating the earth and sun and stars. The black hole where the Shekinah has to fill or I might never be human again.

What do you drive and what drives you

I drive a big red SUV where I clap my hands and it starts to roar and race down the road. It holds me safe and tight and I can slide with ease, a mother to the world…This drive to connect, to be one with the earth, like my car to the road...this need to feel the wheels hitting each rock, each pebble, each stone unturned under my feet, like the wheels of the car to cross across mysterious terrain that can either eat me alive or ignite me to life.