Just another blessing (Rough Draft)

I wanted him to hurt me.

I guess I had figured he would be enough. Tiny bruises on my body. Just enough so I know that I have been claimed. I wanted him to end me but he said that I would be ok. Just a smack here and there.

Words of contempt and rage.

I wanted my body to tell a story. One that forced my lovers to know me. But I guess it was all in vain since I ended up alone anyways.

Advertisements

I is for In the blood

Via Pinterest. Artist unknown.

In the Blood

By Zoha

There is something about the blood.

I don’t know what it is but I am drawn to it

The sight makes me happy

My heart beats faster in my chest

There is something about it

That makes it so I can’t rest

I love the smell

The feel

The taste

I love how it looks sliding down your shocked face

Nothing brings me more pleasure

Nothing can compare

Maybe that is the reason why

I ended up burning in hell

A/N In the Blood is my favorite phrase. So sorry if I use it a lot in my writing. You will survive.

B is for Blush

I am not sure how old I was when I loat my first friend. I know I was fairly young and the idea of death wasn’t really big. I knew people died but it didn’t really mean much. Death was final and yet not final at the same time. This may have been because I went to my first funeral when I was around two years old.

I remember the casket clearly. Or as clear as a possible two year old can. It was white…maybe pink. So very very tiny. It held the body of a young girl who had died in her sleep. She seemed big to me though I have been told that the girl was around my age.

Her casket was tiny but she appeared so big.

I remember dancing and playing in the aisles as people cried. There was so much crying going on. I didn’t know this girl…it wasn’t until I was older that I realized I never would.

As I aged I went to a lot of funerals. Never again a child and nearly always males. The female line of my family tends to live forever it seems. I only have one grandfather who is still alive. I have lost many uncles and great uncles and great great uncles. And make cousins…yes…I have lost plenty of those as well.

But

That casket.

That tiny casket with the not so tiny girl. She has always stuck in my mind.

I am not sure if I was related to her. My mother doesn’t like to talk about her much since she was born the same year as my older sister. I think maybe even just hours apart and at the same hospital. I think it makes my mom feel guilty that her child lived while the other ladies child did not.

I am not sure though. I have only met the mother once. I remember the hungry look in her eyes every time she glanced at my sister.

As a kid I figred she was some creepy lady. As in adult I understand. I understand her looks and shaking hands as she patted my sisters face. I understand why she ignored me. I understand why her and my mother walked on egg shells when they spoke. I understand it all to well.

See while I have never lost a child I lost a friend at a very young age. I have lost siblings. I have seen friends cry after they spoke of the children they had lost.

I have seen blushing brides with a baby bump turn to tear stained widows with scars.

I have seen it all and more.

So, while I have never lost a child, I can still grieve with them. I can hold them close and understand. Maybe not fully but enough to be there when needed

Oblivious

Cold seeps in from the uncovered window pane.

Twisting through the exposed bones of those long forgotten souls

Nearby mice shiver with clear anticipation

Hoping that the chill will bring more for them to nibble on

A body saunters near, head of fire, eyes of coal

Trying in vain to stay warm

Looks into the window and overlooks the mice

Thinks that this is a safe place to stay the night

Enter through the doorway that was once nailed shut.

Takes a moment to do it due to it being frozen and locked

Mice scatter behind broken furniture wondering

Can’t it see the blood

Cut and Burn

It burns inside.

The urge to do some harm to a vital part of me.

All the while screaming for some form of release.

‘Someone fucking save me from this hell.’

Yet I know no one will.

I am all alone with a dull blade.

Ready to cut but can’t seem to figure out where.

I want it to hurt

I need it to hurt

I can feel it before I start to slice.

Take awhile to get things right.

Decided to just push with all my might

Since I made them hide the good knives.

Tiles floors splattered red

Favorite place cause the walls always stare

I like to think that this is the only room that care

It burns inside of me now

The urge to cut till I am there

Holding a dull blade against my vitals

Screaming for some release

‘You had your chance to fucking save me’

Though I know no one is there

A cut that is quickly fading

The door tells me what a good girl I am

Overtime 

The world of D&D has always fascinated me. Weaving storyline on the spot thay come a live as you act them out with friends and not so much friends. 

This is what I have longed to be apart of. Yet I have always found myself afraid to get into it. Like, I would google the crap out of it, but actually talking to others about it didn’t happen. 

It was my own dirty little secret. One that I knew my family and many of my friends would judge me for. 

I had zero faith in the game. Recently though I found myself talking to a friend who played often. A friend I used to hate because I felt they were uppity. A friend I judged way to harshly for just existing. 

Talking to them I learned a story I always wanted to tell but never had the courage to. I told him the gifts I didn’t dare to reach for and the dreams I wouldn’t allow myself to see. We had fun and laughed about nothing in particular. I made a friend out of someone I secretly hated. 

D&D brings people together and allows them to enjoy a world not of our own. Allows them to be whom they want. The mightiest dwarf, the kindest elf, The bravest Teifling. It does things to people. I used to not let myself enjoy these things but now I think I just might. 

Post haste with paper and paste.

What is it like before it ends? Moments filled with laughter and pain? Is it worth it?

I think it is.

I was created to a punching bag, something meant to be destory all in the name of fun. Do not pity me though, I am ok with this.

I knew the moment I was born that I was meant to die this way.

I remember the smile on my  creaters face. 

Their pride was addictive. Held together with paper and glue; I never thought I amounted to much. Cheaply made but they where proud anyways.

The exciment, the laughter, easy to forget the pain.

It took awhile for them to find me. The perfect family to want me. The feel as the child held me in their arms. I don’t think I will ever forget it. 

The car ride home was the  scariest part. while the child was happy to have me they still worried. What if their friends didn’t like me? What if I wasn’t enough? Where they to old to love me?

I remember how their  parents just laughed, “It will be ok”.

The child grasped me closer nodding but still confused. 

I wanted nothing more then to comfort them. Even though I knew my fate I still wanted them to smile. 

When we had gotten to their home the child gently walked in and placed me on the counter. Running their hands along my face and tail. Leaving warm trails along my side. 

The parents walked up;  bowls of candy in each hand. 

I won’t lie, I was afriad. I wished I had the abilty to run at that moment. I knew what would happen. I was proud  but still… the pain wasn’t something I looked forward too. 

They were gentle though. Not to rough as the filled me to the brim. Still I shook (or at least I think I did).

The child  stood by me the whole time though. Reminded me off my creater with how serene he was. Even when faced with something difficult and new, they stayed brave. In the end it made even me feel brave. 

Once the parents were done they walked away. I stayed that way for sometime before someone came for me. They gently carried me outside and tied me to a nearby tree. To me it seemed to high but I know the little ones would it perfect so I had no complaints really. It took awhile longer for people to arrive. As they did I made sure to watch and get an understanding of the guest. The kid in blue looked like he packed a punch while the boy with the cornflower hair seemed timid and thoughtful. Many more beside them ran inside. Each with their own story, their own personality, their own power. 

I was still in control though, I got to choose which one had the honor of taking my life. 

To others it  seem like a grave power to have but I was ok with it. Proud even; I was in control of my own destiny.  How many others could say that? 

As the final hour crawled closer I sat and watched. The children played merrily as the adults rushed around stopping little spats and encouraging fun. 

It was all so exciting.  I watch as the little timid boy, the oddest in the bunch of hyper children, stand by himself. Ignoring even the young birthdays boys attempts to play. At first I felt pity for him but then I realized that he was truly enhoying himself. Sure it wasn’t like the other little boys but the soft smile on his face allowed me to see that he took pleasure it watching the lives of others. 

This little boy reminded me much of myself. Watching from the outside. As carefree as can be, yet thoughtful. 

I decided that he would be the one to kill me. 

A/N 

I was never one for happy stories but this is the closest I have ever gotten to one. I have decided to not show the finishing moments because we all know how that goes. Instead i wanted to show the pinatas viewpoint from creation to moments before it is destroyed. 

If it had feeling would it be ok with it being broken? I like to think it would. It would be bringing joy to children. Yes it will hurt but life is never easy. This was a special pinata and it felt looked because it was. I remember always wanting one as a kid. I loved going to others peoples parties and having fun especailly with this ginat paper mache madness come out. These words of art that will be destroyed in the end but is well loved beforehand. 

How many of us has had one and held it closely to our hearts because we felt it was the best thing ever. The excited smiles and giggles. 

Even though it is the parents and other kids who decide who is lucky enough to break the pinata I felt that it was best to leave it up to the one who will be broken. It was always interesting how much effort it took to break one and how sometimes it seemed to take forever and others it didn’t take as long. Almost like the person who broke it was choosen. 
I found this via google and think I may keep doing this.