She’s small and petite
with a frame so frail
with a face so pale
a lollipop so round
she giggles and smirks
a hiding place is found
with no place that lurks
With the help of another
she’s not in it alone
a con artist brother
will make you moan
You can’t escape
her torturous faith
A gentle rape
will make you the eight
This fairy tale starts with a girl. Some one I have never met, and hope that I never do. My mother tells me she appears friendly, but is far from the loyalty.
“She jokes and she tricks as she plays her way through,
you’ll never believe that she is only 4’2”
My mother continues on. Her warnings were grim as she tucked me into bed. Her final quote was to never look her in the eye. Confused as I was, curiosity caught the best of me.
As the poem continues under the blankets with a flashlights:
Her eyes they spiral
spinning and flowing
your shriek will go viral
without you knowing…
This is when she came to me. Quickly she shifted a shadow across my blanket and then there she was, standing at my bedside. Her eyes darted mine as we locked into frame. The five second hold sent me astray.
I will never forget the vibe that was sent my way, she held onto my world as she hugged at my waist. A tiny child, so violently devoted in making sure that sheer terror runs through my veins. The sensitivity surging created havoc in my body, raising my awareness that I may be the “eight”.
She looked up to me and said, He’s here now. Her eyes were far from cautious as the darted around my room. He stood in the corner, thin, tall and dark. Mysterious as he was, I didn’t feel the threat. A diversion created set the damaging nightmare that later came.
A nightmare so hellish that not even the devil could stand it. The devil himself passed it onto the poor innocence of a demented little girl. Maybe it wasn’t her fault that she was this way? My mother begged to differ. She told me that I should never believe anything she tells me. That everything she says is the falsehood of a persuading truth.
The vision of the thin, tall man posed no threat. It wasn’t her true form. Claiming your purity was the possession of a young child. Her Conjuring of “con artist brother” only created the diversion of her true form. She, herself, was the “brother” and was manifested only to slip into the fear of those who are weak. Those who subconsciously believe in the darkest point of life.
Its the unknowing that feeds her manifest. Without it, the diversion won’t exist. She will not be able to embody the soul of her “brother” to channel the darkest points in your life. To stay safe, you have to remain impure. She cannot walk among those with impurities. Those who wander with the rebelness of the streets.
She knew something about me that I did not know. Something that, to my knowledge, I was unaware of. A single fact about myself that she knew was feeding her the power to continue with this ill fated nightmare.
She left me with the sicken sensation of feeling alone. When I woke up the following morning I was not in my bed. Placed in the closet like the raggle of clothes, slumpy hanging on the wooden dowel. Opening the doors, there she was. Sitting on my bed, whispering that riddle as she faded away:
What is a thing that can’t be heard?
A single thing that’s not absurd.
Who has a normal fact of existence,
will soon require some assistance