The Longest Poem In The World.
By Rachel Hart.
Written while painting a picture to deal with grief about the difficult mother-daughter bond.
Sang to herself, mixed colors and words. It was a seven-hour project.
Watched it morph into supressed anger about sibling rivalry and the root of her mysterious “crushes.”
Figured out why she saves young little “Ian’s” without ever laying a finger on them.
Learns she’s brilliant and loving and trustworthy and kind.
Understands her father is a genius, mind-controlling, sadist pedophile.
Reveres the fact that no evidence will ever be found against him.
Doesn’t care anymore.
She’s a free bird. 35-years-old. No kids.
Married to a man with a tapered temper, lots of money, and access to a lifetime of powerful lawyers.
An acre in Scottsdale. He’s richer than Dad.
She made sure it worked out this way. And she didn’t even know it.
She’ll probably do nothing about it...but she could.
And if he leaves her alone - her family alone, her animals alone, her friends alone -
If he leaves her the FUCK alone, she’ll not press charges.
He might even feel like killing himself.
And that’s Ok.
She doesn’t need vindication.
She remembers.
And that’s enough.
I don’t know why I’m bleeding but it hurts.
I don’t know why it hurts.
It’s always inflamed. I don’t know why it hurts.
I don’t know I’m bleeding, but it hurts.
I don’t know why it hurts to be a girl. To wear pink.
I don’t want to be her. I don’t want to be me.
I feel like my throat hurts.
Why are my lips bleeding?
Why does my jaw ache and crack? Why does it lock open?
I don’t know. I’ll never know. None of the doctor’s can figure it out.
But He’ll fix it.
He’s my doctor. He’s my dad. I’m proud of my dad.
He likes to fix things when they’re broken.
He likes projects and taking things apart before putting them back together.
Right now he’s into radios.
It used to be cars.
It’s probably people, too, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.
I don’t why I’m bleeding, but it hurts.
Why is my neck frozen? Why am I afraid to speak?
Why does it feel like it hurts to have a voice?
Why is my neck so...tight?
I don’t understand why, if you ask.
Don’t ask me about my body, because I never have an answer.
He says it’s genetic, but it’s not. It’s inherited, but not genetic. Whatever it is.
It’s a mystery, really. I don’t understand why being a girl hurts so bad.
I don’t understand why She hates me for being a girl.
I don’t know why am bleeding...but it hurts.
“You’re too young to have your period.”
Ok. Not that, then. I’ll just make it go away.
I was always petrified of getting pregnant.
He said I was paranoid. A paranoid liar. A pathological liar.
That’s what he told Her, so she’d never trust me.
That’s why my mom died. While remaining alive.
That’s when I became an orphaned elephant.
Seven pregnancy tests in one day, remember? With Neal?
I was always petrified of getting pregnant.
I was always petrified. I was always pregnant? No. Just once.
I had an abortion once, I was devastated.
I was dating Tom. I was sober. I thought I was smart.
He said he’d stay with me if I killed my baby.
He said he’d stay with me forever if I gave up my most prized possession.
He said he’d stay with me - never abandon me - if he could control my body.
So I said OK. To stay safe. To be not left alone...in the house...with Him...in my mind.
I said ok, “You can hurt me to keep me safe.” But I didn’t know I said it.
And he lied. HE LIED!
And when we broke up, I scoured his house for my baby. My son.
Where was he?
It was a mild psychosis...probably? I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. I should ask my dad.
He’s my best friend.
When he lied, when Tom lied. I died. Crushed. Seeing black.
I couldn’t even brush my teeth. Would I hurt myself? I didn’t know.
Crushed. He wasn’t; back with his ex-wife in a few hours, probably.
I went to his house and barged through the door. I started screaming.
I opened his cabinets and closets and drawers, wondering if my baby was hiding somewhere.
My dead baby, the one that’d been flushed down the toilet six months prior.
“What did you do-do-do to my BABY?!?!” I shrieked. I stuttered. I was five.
He’d never seen me like this. He thought I was crazy; I was.
It’s called PTSD.
Was he dead in the crib?? Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!
Is he dead? Is my baby brother dead???
How come mom won’t wake up? How come HE always walks me back to bed? The Boogie Man.
I’m having night terrors - this is an EMERGENCY!
But it wasn’t. Not to Him.
He’s in charge.
You know I was a virgin when I got pregnant…practically.
With Tom. It was only my second time.
So I thought.
My second consensual time. That’s true.
But something changed once we had sex. He got detached. I started crying.
It was the only way he could do it. From the back. I froze. I died. I couldn’t move.
Steven. The Doctor.
He promised me that if I gave up my body, my most prized possession, I could save my baby.
He promised.
He promised me. If I gave up my body, he’d leave Aaron alone.
He promised. And then he lied. I hated him.
I wanted him to die. Like me.
I wanted him to give himself the shot.
I wanted him to swallow his own medicine.
What a jerk.
He promised me, and he lied, and I hated him, and I obsessively check on my son.
In the crib. In his room. On the phone. Via text.
He’s 30-years-old now; he’s not dead.
My baby brother is 30-years-old. Terrorized at night with bad dreams and backaches.
He doesn’t know where they come from.
He doesn’t know why it hurts.
He doesn’t know why his brain bleeds.
He doesn’t know why his mind tortures him in his sleep.
It’s PTSD, but maybe it’s best he doesn’t know.
Maybe it’s best I protect him, like a good elephant mother should...like Steve tells me to do.
I’m a good elephant mother. I keep Dad’s secret to protect my baby.
My mom was killed by poachers that stole her tusks. I was so sad.
I am so sad...and lonely. All the time. I don’t know why.
I’m scared and alone. I’m obedient. He calls me mature. I don’t like it.
I starve. I want to die. But I don’t. That would be wrong. God doesn’t like suicide.
Like Dad always says.
I’m obedient when I take care of my baby brother. My cub. All day long. Diapers.
All night long. I’m sad. I don’t know why. I’m a little Ann. A little wife. I’m confused.
Why are my tusks in this painting? Where did these tusks come from?
See my elephant painting? Look at it again.
I don’t know if my tusks are breasts or a period or a brain.
I don’t know. I can’t tell. I’m not allowed to know.
I don’t know why they’re forbidden: breasts and periods and brains.
Women should submit to their husbands.
But not me. I disobey.
I rebel because He lied. And I hate Him.
Mom’s upset.
She wants me to be a princess, her sister princess. My zombie elephant mom, with no tusks.
She misses her sisters who kept her safe. She resents me from being a tom-boy.
She wants me to be OK with shopping. Like a girl. A princess.
She wants me to be all the things that hurt.
It makes him happy when I obey her...when I listen to my mother.
“Don’t upset your mother,” he says. Over and over again.
But it hurts to be a princess. I just can’t do it.
She wants me to be how he likes her. Dumb and cute and Christian and doubtless.
She wants me to wear pink and put on tights and show off patent leather shoes with ruffled socks and I just don’t know.
I don’t know why I hate it so much.
I feel dirty in girl’s clothes.
I wear sports bras and gym shorts and live in my room. I workout and hide.
I live in my room to protect my brother, duh. But I don’t know that. I just can’t remember.
I draw and stay home even though I want friends.
I draw and stay home with A— and Her.
That’s what He told me to do.
I don’t want to get punished.
So I obey. Sometimes.
I always obey when it comes to my son.
Foreshadowed redemption.
There are bits of hope because I keep secrets.
There are bits of hope because I put them there.
There are bits of hope because I live a double-life.
There are bit of hope. Orange and yellow. The sun. Bold and gold.
Everything secret’s alive.
Everything secret gives life. Keeps me breathing.
My dance is secret.
My best friends are Orange. Orange is forbidden. It’s the only way out.
He patrols and watches and hates it when He finds out.
He accuses me of being a whore who hates God. But I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“I’m a virgin! I’ve never had sex!” He doesn’t believe me. I don’t know why.
I ask A— and M— to never tell on me when I lie to escape.
I ask my friends’ parents to lie for me.
They all think I’m unstable, just like He says. It makes them tell. The idea that I’m mentally ill. It’s a lie. They all drink the Kool-Aid.
They’re good neighbors and church-goers. They tell Her. She tells Him. And I get punished.
That’s the cycle of my whole life.
Not even the Holemon’s can save me.
I am punished for secrets, which makes me collect more. Safety precautions.
It’s a gamble every time, but it’s my only chance. So I do it. I lie.
I lie, like a dirty slut would, but I’m not. My best friends are boys and I use them as refuge.
We play video games all night long and snuggle on couches.
They both think I’m a whore - my older brother, too. This makes me sad.
He never believes me. He helps Steve find me when I escape.
“Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what he does.”
I’m punished for secrets, so I become Yellow. It’s like my disguise.
The boys love yellow.
Safrine - it’s yellow in French? I don’t think so, I don’t know.
The boys love yellow...and they leave it alone.
He wants me to be white and virginal. They all do.
She does and my grandparents do and the entire community does.
They want me to wear white. Be a girly girl. Be normal, like the other teens.
They want me to get married. Early.
I never want to get married.
So I dressed in yellow, instead. They don’t know the difference. It looks the same, but it’s not.
This family is a bunch of dumb bitches, except Aaron.
My pets are dead. Aaron’s all I have left.
I am Yellow now.
Obnoxiously golden. This shade of yellow is strong and bold.
Sassy and bold. Confident...but hidden. Usually an accent color.
That’s what I am. An accent. It’s a costume. Easily dirtied when worn.
But I never get punished outside the house.
Who wants to WEAR yellow? Make it their mate? No one!
No one at church, that is.
Dark, mustardish yellow. Tainted a bit.
The boys love yellow, but they marry the white ones dressed pretty in pink.
One of the boys, at least. A Big Boy who cheats.
That’s what I am. One of the boys. With safety pins in my ears.
A pretend cheater, but loyal to the bone. A pierced belly-button. An under-aged tattoo. A fake ID. An eating disorder.
I’m not actually yellow, I just dress like it.
I’m a suppressed punished princess.
I’m a glowing yellow son.
I’ll never be Gold but I can try. I can try to be a boy.
Needless and wantless...succcessful...but not really.
Look at the elephant picture again. Look at my painting.
I have tusks now so I don’t know what color I am anymore.
I grew up under Her feet, under Her soul-piercing high-heels...but I’m not white or yellow anymore.
And I’ll never be pink.
I swear.
I swear to God.
Don’t make me wear it or I’ll kill you.
I’m 22. I got out.
FINALLY! I CAN BREATHE!
What color should the letters be? Look at my elephant painting.
“I have tusks now.”
“I grew up.”
“I am.”
I can’t leave them white...
...but what color?
What color am I?
Lightening in my brain. It hurts. This “Magic Mountain” moment is a wicked ride.
Intense. Maybe I should sit one out on the bench. It’s EMDR, but with paint.
Oh my heart breaks! She was my mom! My innocent mom! I loved her so much!
She protected me from Him...sometimes. She used to...sometimes.
She’d keep my secrets. She’d keep me safe. But when He started to like me...
When I grew tusks she abandoned me. But I was only ten.
I was only ten!
“Mom, where are you! Mom, how could you! Mom, don’t leave me!”
Nothing I do is enough to please you. You’re always rejecting me, but you deny it.
It cuts deep. As if I asked for it - as if I asked him to find me delicious.
Sitting at the dinner table. She watched it all.
The terror in our eyes, the abuse of her own young. She watched the threats.
He made us eat our meat. It was violent - the threats he made.
For a piece of chicken...or beef...or pork. He was obsessed with the meat on our plates.
He passed around x-rays from the hospital. Of bottles shoved up people’s rectums.
We all thought it was funny. We were all such dumb bitches ask then...even me.
Oh, I’m so sorry Mom! I’m so sorry you had to see that!
You always ate dinner so slowly.
In a trance. In a dream. You looked so lonely like that.
We ran from the table. We hid our food in napkins and threw it away.
You finished supper all by yourself. While he groomed us with sugar and wrestling in the pool or on the carpeted living room floor.
I was so sad for you. I felt so guilty.
He was so mean. You cleaned up the dinner table all alone, so nicely. Every single night.
I promise I’ll never leave you. I’ll never forsake you.
You looked so sad in the kitchen, sitting in that chair.
When we were little. You looked tired and unappreciated. Because you were.
You cooked. You cleaned. You were a slave to him. To us.
To all of us. Because he took us away from you. And you simply couldn’t remember.
Oh, how broken your body must have been!
How broken your brain, like mine.
A hunched back woman with scoliosis and hip problems. Lock jaw. We’re twins.
I can’t imagine what he does to you. Why you seem disabled and absent-minded.
I have compassion. I’m enmeshed but I don’t know why.
I’m sorry I’m a bad daughter.
“I’m sorry I’m a bad daughter. I don’t know why or what for, but I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re never happy with me. I’m sorry I’m a fuck up. I’m sorry I don’t wanna have kids. I’m sorry I’m not a Christian. I’m sorry I’m not playing the game. I’m sorry I don’t swallow the pills. I’m sorry I can’t placate the fantasy world everyone lives in. I’m sorry. I’m just sorry, but I have NO idea why.”
I’m sorry I grew up.
Maybe I’m bipolar. Maybe that’s why you hate me? Is that what you need to hear to accept my awkwardness? Will a diagnosis fix it?
I’m sorry I grew tusks.
I don’t know why I’m failing in school. Will you forgive me?
You’re a puppet Mom, and I need you to wake up!
You have two brains in one scull. Separate, disconnected.
The silent treatment is cold. It stings. Do you hurt me on purpose? I can’t tell.
Oh, Mom. I get you, girlfriend.
I’m sorry we were such jealous bitches. You of me, and me of Matt.
Matthew, my brother. Mad at him for being free, for being spared, for having rights.
Mad at him for being The Boy.
For getting out, for escaping the rest of the story.
For getting out and getting to forget. What a luxurious life that must be.
Rights. He has them. The first born kind.
Matt was the hero child.
Ian is, too.
Passed up by obeying and saving your life, Mom.
He was your favorite. Your little man. Your special guy.
Your first born. You always kept his secrets. You never kept mine.
You hid him from Dad...by bragging. There was nothing to punish him for.
So he stopped getting punished.
Older brothers promise to protect, but they can’t.
They leave you, forsake you, accuse you of being lazy and broken.
They lie and forget about it; they break their promises.
Why do older brothers behave this way? They don’t want to be mean, but they are.
Their words and their eyebrows never match.
Because they’ve been held back and beaten.
But they don’t know. They don’t believe you because they don’t remember.
They think you’re being dramatic when you’re being honest.
“Not Dad...not Dad, of all people. He’d never do that.”
Ok, fine. Whatever. I give up. You win. Fuck me.
That’s how older brothers are.
Too loyal.
Too trapped.
Too forgetful.
Requiem for a Dream.
It’s their life ‘till they die.
Hero children are addictively dangerous. Watch out.
My older brother. So sad he just doesn’t remember.
Marries his own damsel in distress. Just like Mom. Memoryless. Trained.
His wife needs Pinterest children and a brand name kitchen.
But why must he punish his sister for destroying the family name?
Or maybe he doesn’t...Maybe he “needs” to be punished so he can escape...?
If he’s like me, he wants to escape over again. Wants to be wanted to he can escape the obligations of being desired.
Escape Dad.
Get out.
His shame is so old. Older than me.
By two years. 27 months, exactly.
His shame is so deep. It’s in the amygdala. He’ll never remember. He can’t.
It’s scientifically impossible.
So he just assumes he’s right. That’s what first borns do.
His shame is so deep. Six feet underground.
Where his sister belongs? Maybe. If she talks.
Thinks just like Dad does. He wishes he wasn’t so similar.
Becomes the man he resents. It’s math. The trauma does it to him...
...but he can’t remember.
Six feet under, where his sister belongs.
To preserve his sparkling image.
His personal matrix.
She knows things that will pop the balloon. His balloon is his favorite toy.
He loves shiny things. He loves his balloon.
It reflects his sparkling-self right back to him. It’s a mirroring device.
Must be made of metallic foil. The expensive ones always are.
And so full of air. Secretly, of course. Humble approach.
I know ‘cause I married one.
It’s dissassociative denial.
“I get you, Bro.”
I get you, Bro, I can take it.
You don’t know how strong I am, you tricky friend...stab me in the back?
Why not the front? At least be honest about it. Be a real, blood sibling, for Christ’s sake! Don’t turn on me like that! Don’t turn me on and turn yourself off. That’s not fair.
We had a pact!
Now I’m crushed. I want to die.
You rich loser.
With your fancy car and secret bitches.
You placating “Christian” son with more secrets than Satan.
“I hate you, don’t leave me.” Just like the book.
No really, DON’T! Don’t leave me in his house alone with him!
You don’t know what it’s like when you’re not in the house.
You think we have legs that we don’t.
A— and I - you think he gave us a leg up, like you...but he didn’t.
Even your name means “Gift from God,” you dumbass.
M—, the apostle.
Rachel. “Little Lamb” in Hebrew. An adult sheep is an “ewe.”
Ewe. She’ll always believe she’s gross.
She waited seven years for Jacob. Her father made her...him...them.
He made them do it. With mindtricks.
Rachel was always “the favorite of the two wives.” That’s what it says in the Bible.
Rachel’s father tricked her first “husband” so He could keep her for Himself. His name was Grant.
We broke up, remember? Because Dad liked him too much.
He tricks the ones he wants to keep.
Her father tricks everyone. All of her biblical boyfriends.
All of her bible-following family members.
He’s a tortured soul, that Steven Curry.
A tortured toxicologist who tortures others for fun.
Older Brother. Don’t you see you’ve been bought?
Bought with unending favoritism? Doesn’t it hurt to live without integrity?
I’m sorry, I have to betray you...
But don’t get me wrong: I love you. I really do. I love you so much that I need to leave you alone.
Let you live in illusions. Live in denial.
I’m going to block you on my phone, but it’s not ‘cause I don’t love you.
It’s to protect myself from getting hooked.
I admire you, envy you, and resent you at the same time.
Because you’re mean to me without realizing it.
And it hurts.
That text really hurt.
Blaming me for having been molested by a grown man when I was a helpless child.
Blaming me for trying to protect your kids.
Blaming me for putting you in a tough spot? Really? Really?!
That seems a little fuckin’ ridiculous, Dude.
Go be the man you’ve forgotten you already are.
Compensate for no reason. Your accolades astound us. You’re already famous.
You’re a fuckin’ man, and you don’t even know why you can’t stop achieving.
You don’t even think it’s compulsive.
You work addiction is obvious...you have to...you need the strokes...you can’t live without them.
No, really. Literally. You would have died without them. He would have done to you what he did to me. You had to sacrifice me to live. And I forgive you. But stop already. It’s over.
Don’t you get it? That’s why you don’t like to share. Why you’re happy to take credit for others’ work.
So go collect your dollars for having been first. First in line. To the horror house. Whore house.
“It’s cool dude. I get it. I’ll be the loser.”
Peace.
Truces, right?
Right? I hope so. I pray to God I’ll be Ok.
My mother is dead. My brother has to hate me because he can’t stand to lose. My father’s a rapist.
It might just be best if I die.
“Bro, just let me go. Just leave me alone. Please? Please just leave me the fuck alone and let me do my thing. Stop judging me. Just pretend to stop. Just pretend you approve of my dysfunctional life. Just be nice. I miss you, Dude, and it hurts. Not having you around hurts hard. So don’t poke me, Okay? I’m in pain. It’s real. I’m not fuckin’ faking it like Dad says.”
I know what color I am now.
I’ll be pastel fluorescence.
Loud and proud and translucent.
Capable and free.
Empathetically grounded.
Not yellow or white, but yellow and white combined.
Just the good parts.
Only the assets.
The defects are gone...because I remembered.
But M— won’t leave me alone...in my head.
He was purchased with privledge.
Don’t you realize we weren’t? A— and I were game for his hunting.
I married someone like you, but less so.
Abused, but less so.
Less so because he has a 12-Step cushion.
But that’s probably the only difference.
I married someone just like you.
Denial is his favorite pill to swallow.
”Better living through chemistry.”
Better than living in TRUTH?!
No way!
Maybe if competition is your only means of play.
Bobby, you gotta learn how to have fun.
Bobby, you gotta relax and chill the fuck out.
Bobby, you should try Al-Anon for your ladder-climbing work situation.
But M—, that text was mean. I may never see your kids again.
I may never see my nieces grow up. All because I have a voice.
All because I won’t take his hush money.
I’m done being a slave.
And you think that being embarrassed is death - Ha!
You’re no better than Him! Our common enemy who’s made you His ally.
You’re no better than that Big Black Cloud of terror.
Stop keeping the networks alive so their vocal cords aren’t.
Stop using your reputation as a shield.
Stop hiding behind your global leadership trophies.
And if you can’t, then fine. But don’t hold me down.
At least set me free. At least let me rescue your daughters.
You hate that my conscience is too good for your games.
You hate that I tattle when I’m small and afraid.
You hate that you think my vagina is power.
But it’s not!
Come on, Dude. I had it WAY worse.
I call front seat this time.
Be nice to your little sister.
You hate that I can’t keep secrets because I don’t know how.
He beat ‘em outta me, you idiot! You think I wanted you to get hit?!
You think I liked watching you suffer?!
Are you fucking kidding me?! You’re my BROTHER, Dude.
You’re my BIG brother.
I think you’re so cool. I wanna be you.
I follow you around. Annoy you with questions. You only want me when you’re bored.
I can’t keep up with your mood.
And when I get tits, your bros think I’m cool.
Oh, so we’re allowed to be friends now?
Now that I’m not your obnoxious little sister anymore? Now that I’ve passed your tests?
I know we’re old now. I know you’re competitive.
We both know I’m not.
So be nice, Ok?
Just let me do my thing.
Let me live my life. Tell my version of the story.
Just let me be a bird, at last.
Let’s stop fighting. Please?
Can’t we all just agree that Dad’s fucked up?
Can’t we all just agree that it fucked us up, too?
Can’t we just wave white flags instead of our egos? Our costumes?
Can’t we just kiss and make up and forget this whole thing ever happened?
“Say sorry to your brother.”
Sorry, Stupid. Sorr-eeeeeeeeeeeee.
“No, Rachel. Say it like you mean it.”
Sorry, Bro.
Sorry, Bro. Whatever. I don’t care. You win. Like always.
He doesn’t know Mom watches me for Dad.
She’s His eyes and ears.
She makes me his bitch.
And Matt hates me. Wrestles me and pins me down.
He hates me and he doesn’t know why.
But I do because I remember.
He thinks their pity is real.
They tell him they feel sorry for me. That I have such bad genes and a fucked up brain.
They lie to him together. Because Steve lies to Ann who tells M— that I’m difficult.
My brother thinks I make my mother’s life difficult on purpose. He thinks I like hating myself. He’s jealous I get a break. Even though I don’t.
That’s the whole fuckin’ narrative, right there.
Bro, they tell you they’re so glad you’re not like me. Not unreliable. Not a loser.
These are diamonds to you, aren’t they? Delicacies.
The only alternative to neglect.
Approval. It’s your addiction. Your kryptonite.
Get some help. You need it but you can’t see it. The secrets keep you safe, but I got raped for keeping mine.
When they caught me trying to be dualistic, like you...I was punished.
And you just thought I was a bad liar, you naive prick.
When I say it, you scoff.
You wish I’d go kill myself.
Wouldn’t you like that? For me to be a deaf-mute. As if I wasn’t one already. Ha!
If you only knew, motherfucker.
I’m toast.
Fuck me.
Go to bed.
Sleep it away.
Wait a minute, no-no-no. No, I’m not toast. I’m 35-years old!
I’m Sunrise Mountain Lion.
I’m yellow, but not.
I play boys like you on the school yard.
I groom you with praise and leave you with nothing.
Well, you’re my brother...so I’ll never leave you with nothing. That would be mean.
You’ll always have my unconditional love and support.
But you won’t have my loyalty.
I’m sorry.
I’m only loyal to myself, now.
And you can’t buy my silence.
I already said I’m sorry.
I’m sorry I sing for a living. I’m sorry I love people, and want them to heal. I’m sorry I throw the skeletons in my closet around like their nothing...because they are.
I’m sorry this inconveniences you.
I’m sorry I’m a Grackle.
A black, sleek bird.
Grackles are untamably violent, but I’m not. They kill smaller birds for sport, but I don’t.
I don’t cause hurt because I know what it’s like to be dead.
I know what it’s like to be choked to death and brought back to life. Literally.
I know what it’s like to be date raped in my own bedroom.
And you hate the weakness you sense in me because you repress it in yourself.
Forgotten. Like Inception. You’re whole life’s a movie that you haven’t figured out.
To be honest, I feel bad for you. I feel bad for your numbness.
We’re complete opposites. We go together like peanut butter and jelly. We’re a deadly pair. I’m the Yin to your Yang and together we feel complete.
I’m the embodiment of compassion and touch.
My skin is made of pure velvet. Forever young.
My well of kindness is infinite. I never get tired of hugs. I’m fuckin’ Jesus.
I befriend victims and criminals alike. You think it’s a game? You think I’m crazy and too trusting? A dumb-bitch bimbo who’s clueless?
Guess what? You go ahead and think that, you fool.
I. Just. Don’t. Care.
And I’m sorry, but I have to tell.
I have to set myself free from the cage of my past.
I have to save the children of the world.
I opened a non-profit, for Christ’s sake!
My name is Rachel. Rachel, Lyon Hart.
Hey there, I’m Rachel...here on the computer, meeting myself.
I’m a bird. I’m not a boy, but that’s Ok now.
Because I’ll always be a bird. Cage-free and kind.
Redemption is real.
I love you, Bros.
I always will.
I’m sorry you can’t accept it. There’s no catch.
Believe me, I know; you’ll always be faster and smarter than me.
You’ll always be the wolf. I’ll always be the lamb.
I don’t try to beat you at your games anymore. I gave up so long ago. When my baby died in my boyfriends house. When my son died right in front of my eyes. When he was an infant and I was a kid. At 3444 E. Caleveros Drive.
Yeah, I gave up then. Way back then. And you’re still trying to wrestle.
You poor thing. Take a break, already.
Honestly, I don’t trust your control disguised as “protection” and “support.”
I don’t trust your paranoia disguised as “wisdom” and “experience.”
I just won’t ever trust again.
That’s the way wild birds are.