May 17th, 2020

anatomical beat

The Real LJ Idol - Season 11 - Week 22 - Hiraeth

She was made of longing.
Pure and simple.
Polluted and complex.
A nostalgic yearning for night and day, sun and moon, sea and mountaintop.
The seasons were spun around her,
The strands that bound her, held her, made her prey to their ravenous need of her.

She was daughter and maiden,
Lover and queen.
But never mother, never crone.

The longing was not hers,
It was the desires of others that created the shape of her.
His passion,
Her mother’s possession.
She could feel the centrifuge that was her existence,
The spinning that pulled her essence away from the center of her being.
Stripped her soul to its bare, naked,
Quivering self.
The core.
She was the core.

Her body the world
Above and Below.
With closed eyes
Breathing deeply of the earth
The stalks
and the roots.
Memories moving through her mind
Wind through the wheat
Ghosts in the stream.

In the late winter time,
She would feel her body moving skyward,
Lifting off the bed,
Her ribcage pressed against the ceilings of his cavernous den.
Her heart frantic within,
Her fingers scrabbling at the distance between.
She wanted the sunlight on her face, the grass beneath her.
And he would reach up from the black linens
Wrap his long-fingered hands around the cradle of her body,
The jutting hipbones the perfect grip,
And he would pull her back down.
Weeping, sobbing against her breast,
Please just a while longer,
Just a while longer.
Stay with me.
His tears as bitter
As the arils he fed her out of his upturned palms.

In the late summer time,
She would fall prone to the earth,
Her pelvis fast against the dirt,
Thigh bones writhing
Pressing downward
Her mother would find her thusly in the garden
And wrap her arms around her neck
Holding fast, cradling her against her body
Stay, stay with me.
I need you.
I cannot breathe without you
Near me.
Her grasp so tight that she felt she would
Grind her back to the elemental.

She dreamt of long blades of onyx with bone handles
Sunlight glinting off wicked edges
Tips so sharp that death could be rendered
For long moments before reality set in.
She wanted to stand still
Under the dark moon
Flay the skin in sheets off her skeleton
Spill the viscera into the furrows
Use the bones of her fingers to dig beneath the ribs
Find the core, the soul, the heart
Hold it
The beating life of it.
The fragile death of it.