I’ve been hurt.
I’ve been hurt by this dagger that continues to pierce my diaphragm into my ribcage, slicing my heart...day after day.
The hurt isn’t a physical hurt. It’s a hurt that stings deeper than the flesh and the muscles that encase my pain.
It’s a hurt that has developed and stung me with cuts and bruises for so many years that the scabs are now dark brown and the purple-blue bruises just never seem to heal.
A hurt that I’ve been unable to let go, remove, or separate myself from.
Sadly enough this hurt has enveloped me and trapped me with its controlling gaze and claws and won’t let me go.
This hurt I speak of is fatal:
The wounds of a child unable to make him happy.
The wounds of a girl unable to make him proud.
The wounds of a teenager wondering what a man really is.
The wounds of a woman trying to make things work, and still destructively failing.
It’s a hurt that I can’t seem to outrun - even after sprinting through the finish line, he has already arrived at the end and caught his breath to taunt and humiliate me.
Go figure – it’s my luck: the escape hatches have all been removed, and he just keeps pushing me further and further into the darkened alleyway of heartache.
This hurt is unavoidable and damaging.
Unfortunately, as much as I try to fight it, this hurt is also apparently eternal.
Getting away seems unpromising, unattainable, and strictly impossible.
The claws have gripped and they have wounded me as deep as the Aetos Kaukasios wounded Prometheus regularly.
Although… Prometheus had a reason to be cut open, marred, and impaled on a daily basis.
What’s my reason?
