The Anxious Daughter is Also Angry
The anxious daughter is also angry
because for one, for two, for three quindecillion nights she has not slept, now the room is trembling and she wonders if once she wished only for wisdom teeth, wisterias and the woeful wakening of an angry moon.
Fled home one day to find doors opening to a dissension in the soul, suddenly the room was filled with the liberating lust of problematic personalities, home fading, fading, from the back corner of her eye.
The spiders slept, shuddering in cupboards, black-webbed, weeping, but her conscience would not close, the day had waxed and waned into eternity, the cosmic noise reaching down to shatter skull and giggle at the shards it left behind.
The anxious daughter is also angry
Because she hasn’t smiled properly in 2 or 3 weeks she thinks she is cursed to wallow in the temptations of melancholic musings, martyred to the Kafkaesque works of the soul crucified, on the crusade of philosophic propositioning.
She stumbled through the fields, tasting mud and ashes in the soil, laid down to press her skin, skull, soul into the dirt, the earth gagged and told her to go home.
So she did, collapsing through the door with a clogged-up trachea, wondering how many steps it would take to understand the Cosmos, only to find her brain was less cosmically inclined than she might have thought.
The anxious daughter is also angry
Because being a girl limits her to self-indulgent self-pity, a sneer of disgust towards our atom-bomb anatomies, an inability to bleed in a way that is beautiful.
She’s your haemorrhaging heroine all the same, not the haemorrhaging that is heroic: the wonder of the sacrificial lamb - sudden, silenced, scintillating.
The blood of a girl is nothing but obligatory.
If she breaks the world breaks the skies breaks you, you’ll smile gently at the dirt between her teeth curses on her lips, and tell her that you cannot stop her:
You cannot punch a girl.
The anxious daughter is also angry
Because she wants, wants, wants to be more than the hollow hammering of her heart the limitations of flesh.
If transcendence is a price, she’ll pay: rip off her skull, her skin, her spirit.
She’ll taste mutiny, melancholy, masterful music of everything it means to be a god.
Until finally you look into her eyes and know you have uncovered something unholy.
You press yourself against walls in which she sleeps, the anxious daughter, the prodigal princess, kiss the soil and pray for whatever humanity is left.
The anxious daughter is also angry
Because she’s been hidden for too long.
Because her life is dedicated to society soliloquy suicidal tendencies of a world that simply doesn’t care.
When she finds herself immersed she’ll fling herself like a rocket to the stars, burning down the world, clawing at the freedom you clutch behind your back.
Tasting nebulae, necromancy and neurosis, she will peer at the ashes she has scattered and smile, knowing that finally you see beyond the beating of her heart to savage soul and senses, to the immortal flame behind averted eyes, a hand that’s always trembling.