Category: the darkness

I never used to iron.

Ironing. For years I refused to be a slave to the mould of hot steaming iron. I refused to smooth away the crinkles, press creases and stand in the ultimate housewife position. Legs spread, board out, piles upon piles of  stylistic statements before me, all of them requiring attention, all of them requiring me to become the atypical label. A housewife, a wife a mother, a female, a girl a lady. We iron.

We stand for hours, up the board, down the board, bored, bored, bored.  You were in or you out. I was out. I was the black death of womanhood my views contagious, my opinion death like. So I ironed less and welcomed my self induced plague. 

I iron. I became the label that society imposed on me. Sickened by my acceptance I remove my bra in protest.

Karen Hayward ©2015.

Flowers in the attic where do you hide!

The feeling creeps in slowly.
Panic, as I flip through once, twice, three times. I search the normal places, beside  the bed, the couch, at the top of the stairs, by the window in the kitchen next to the heater, the window that shows me the sun as he wakes and the moon as she wakes. It’s not there and not even the sparkling stars in the clear skies can make me feel better. I search inside bags and tucked beneath the mattress, I pull out the bed and feel my heart sink, my eyes prickle and for a moment I question my sanity. What if. What if I didn’t own that book, what if I just borrowed it, that would certainly make sense and suddenly it feels like my world is crashing, I just want to read the book, now, I search some more determined to be sure that the book is at least not here. Emptiness envelopes around me, darkness falls upon my heart, I feel a great void where a story should be, not any story and certainly not a recall from the many times I have read it before, a void created through the lack of pages to turn, the lack of worn out paper in my hands. The emptiness has become me.

Karen Hayward 2015. ©

Scorpion’s cusp Sagittarian’s rise.

image

Neither the centaur nor Scorpius.

The mythological bridge with a tail

that stings.

Both wanderers searching for truth.

Feed her sting with secrets so dark

and you’ll  fuel the archers love for life.

The Scorpian will regenerate to keep

control over her destiny whilst the Centuer

fights the hemmed in corner to regain

freedom. Either way she rises.

The King of Gods oversee’s her whilst

the King of War whispers in her ear and

the King of the Underworld takes her hand

and leads her into temptation. The Scorpius,

unafraid will walk away unscathed as the

Centaur chalk’s it up to exploration.

Let her breathe if you have been unfortunate

enough to cross her, or bow down and take

the angry words, for they will come as she

searches the deep waters of her captive emotions.

But beware the Centaur does not rise and lead

the way, the fire moves so quickly and those bows

can move so far.

She’ll flirt with you till passion bubbles motivated

by her desire to play. Remaining devoted

whilst the Centaur is mindful of her tongue.

Together they explore your mind. Between them

every dark corner of it.

Together they rarely leave without their chosen desire.

Scorpius will use her passion to manipulate your eyes

whilst the Archer sets up bow and the Centaur

captivates your mind.

Escape is futile, unless she changes her mind

which she is known to do.

Karen Hayward (copyright 2015)

Image shared via internet, could not find original owner or copyright…please correct me if you can!

 

Darkness engulf me.

I want the darkness to engulf me

to wrap its cold dead fingers around me

and drain me of what innocence I have left.

I want to be a walker of the night,

to disperse the shadows of doubt

and fill them with the heat of revenge

and when the dark angels are sent

to retrieve my broken soul

I will ask them of their crimson role.

I want the darkness to engulf me.

Blood of a dying spirit.

My soul and my identity are not separate.

They are the same entity and if you

cage one, you cage the other by default.

My spirit is capable of being more if

you allow my wings to spread

my hair to fall

my eyes to shine

and voice to call.

My spirit can be all.

My body alone without my soul

is an empty casket devoid from life.

My skin the iron bars. My words the

iron key. My eyes the iron floor upon

which I constantly look.

My tears the blood of my dying spirit.

My heart beats for the moments regret,
For those thoughts i could not forget.
Breaking away,
for the words i didn’t say.

Karen Hayward (©2015.)