Spare the Rod

spoil the child.

He that abstains from beating by way of correction
Hateth his son.


Punishment. Perhaps the way a fingernail fits perfectly under the bed of a scab beckoning you to peel away the purposefulness of its healing nature. Perhaps the way the sexes were created to fit together oh so naturally, and in so doing peeling away the horrid joke of the mismatched male and female minds.

Things feel superficial as they always do when relationships end. When all your friends feel like they were simply audience members in the show of your love life. What a dream it all was. You were all there. O hello again. Thank you for coming all this time. The reviews are out, the critics have spoken. Please, tell me what you really think. Don't hold back. It's been so long. I never would have guessed it looked like that from where you sat.

Who am I kidding, she asks and thinks no one. Sad pretty face in a mirror surrounded by naked bulbs alight enough to see the coil from which it burns. Consistent as sugar, needed like air. Where does this come from. She asks and thinks no one.

100,000 miles of mountains in the distance covered in yellow and orange and pink and lime green yarns, each foothill, each tree, each leaf a thread tied by hand. There wasn't a word from him. Each comment blasted power and passion and reason smothered down into a mutter under the breath. Not a word from him. Standing on the horns of a beast, bloodied, gallant, a heart in my hand and a gash down my own chest I take my eyes from the sky and look down at him. My shoulders drop, my pride fades, and there is nothing but disappointment as a failure to impress and evoke a word from him.

You bruised me. You bit me. You bore me. You were cheap. You were not smart. You were needy and selfish and obsessive. You were no fun. You were lazy. You were afraid of everything. You brought nothing to the table. No one really liked you, no one really disliked you. You needed a team of defenders to protect you against the truth. And I held your hand to make sure you never found out.

I was told there are two people in this world, the open palms and the closed fists. For so long, with all the effort I gave to keep you safe from you by taking on the demon of your secrets, my fist grew tighter. And the more I gave, the more I hated what I saw and the more I hated the more I fought. My knuckles were white the day your demon tore the flesh and I ran away.

But they didn't tell me what it meant to be an open palm. They didn't tell me what went with what they presented to be the better option, the one to strive for. There is nothing in that palm. That fist meant something. That fist was angry with love, angry for it, angry for wanting it, angry for not understanding it. That fist was holding on to something.

This palm admits there's nothing there.