Anthithesis of My Soul

Antithesis of My Soul

The cold of night casts dark shadows which chill
the very being of my soul with icy
longing which takes my breath and leaves it short.

Alone I sit, and fight the chill only
to find the fortified bottle cannot
protect against that which haunts my soul.

Can God forgive a sin committed by
a heart blinded by wants and needs unknown
and quite without a form to see or grasp?

Can God forgive a love experienced
through a desire which has no place in this
world that cannot reconcile with my heart?

Can the Blessed Virgin help to heal the
great wound which splits my soul in two great halves
and causes agony with every breath?

In looking back with clear green eyes all that
I see is wrongful pain for all who were
witness to this a crime against my love.

I reason with my tortured mind and try
to reach a numb accord to hold at bay
emotion's cold and sharp unfeeling blade.

My memory turns and wanders through time
it scrambles to see and understand how
mistakes can be so easily made.

If I could numb my senses with some crude
and subtle potion to hide my raw hurt
from a world which has little pity,

Then perhaps I could conceal my own pain
from myself so my memory could half
forget the things which passed two years ago.

But, should I leave the pain behind I might
forget the love that I held so strong with
another that I do not dare forget.

And in my pain I give myself to those
who will only use that which i have to give
so that nothing is left, I am alone.

It Is Not My Body

It is not my body.

When the body that is not mine walks onto stage, the ears that are not mine fill with the drone of music I cannot hear. It is not longer distinctive, it does not have the properties that one might consider musical. It is simply a drone—a meaningless soundtrack to meaningless actions performed by a body that is not mine.

The features of the body that is not mine resemble my features. The tone, the shape, the texture, the scent of the body that is not mine resemble those things that make me who I am. And yet it is not me.
The ears that are not mine respond to music I cannot hear, translating every pulsing heartbeat into movement –sensually executed by muscles that are not mine. They tense, they move, they quiver, and they grind in the red faces of men that I do not know.

The movements that are not mine make their faces grow redder, their short breath more urgent, their gaze becomes more penetrating, but they are not looking at me. It is not my body.

When their breath falls heavy in the buxom that is not mine, the eyes that are not mine search for something in the room, for anything in the room to distract the mind that is not mine. This mind that screams out for something better behind the knowledge that there is nothing.

However, it is my soul that attempts to climb, dirty, torn, bloody, and raped from this body which is not mine. It is my soul that begs for the intercession of a God that does not exist. It is my soul that cries for help, but it is silenced by the mind that cares not, and it cannot escape this body that is not mine.

It is not my life. But I am trapped within it.