The further from perfect I fall, the more at home I feel in my bones. But I contradict myself, because lately I can’t even live up to my own imperfections.
You are not a statue, and I am not a pedestal.
Why am I expected to be now? The ring of irony I wear has made me golden in their eyes. Too many eyes. It’s not the real me before them; I have been plated in fool’s gold. A pirate of pyrite. It is my words that dance, hazy images that lie. Pieces of me. Pieced out, when I desperately need to be whole.
I am not a pedestal, nor do I wish to be placed on one. My fear of heights is not without history. Placed high to be saved, when it is they who need to be safe from their jagged hearts and twisted transitions.
Desired for my faults, inferior in the face of them. I find myself staring heavily into thin air, not an answer to be found. Somewhere lurks the question, but would I recognize it if I saw it?
Rain is in the air; the rolling clouds watch over me yet there is no solace. Despite the chill that sweeps across my skin, a heat is building from within, threatening to stoke embers best left untouched, much like myself – dangerous if played with unsupervised.
There is a phantom who lives in my mind. He casts his demands about like confetti at the Mardi Gras, beckoning to see how I will dance to his strings. The spell cast so long ago lives in my shadow, visible only in the moon’s beam. A spell that gives permission to the wicked that I do.
Wicked does not belong on a pedestal, any more so than I belong to any one heart.
Mirror, mirror, truth be said;who shall lie upon this bed?Lie upon me, lie within,the pedestal was fallen by my sin.
© Kymberlie Ingalls,
April 24, 2012
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