Girls and boys I love them both and keep them in my cellar,
One and two and twenty ploys I keep under surrender.
One day a man came to my door so I pluck a girl and tell her
“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t show him your bruised and battered feet, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”
So the girl greets the man in a solemn kind of way, she curtsies slow, they talk, he goes and at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.
The next day, the man came back to visit to see the girl again
But I dumped her body somewhere, I don’t remember where, so I grab a boy and whisper
“Don’t tell him what I hide beneath, don’t speak for your voice is hoarse and bleak, don’t tell him what I hide beneath, or else I shall make you pay,”
And so the boy waves to the man, he grinned at him, he shook his hand, and after tea that gentleman went on his merry way
And at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.
The following day, that cursed man came back to speak with the boy
But I left him alone to starve and die somewhere far from this home
With no one left I can present to him cleanly (for rest of them had turned quite greenly), I came to the door with a coy and just grin, welcoming him quite sweetly
The man, however, did not react the way he once did as he swiftly passed my figure, through the door he wandered in and asked where were my children
“Oh them?” I ask, quite cheerfully spoken
“They are but away. Have gone away to their Uncle’s home and shall be back again some day,”
“That is quite a shame,” the man said low, shaking his head uneven,
He blocked the door, but right before, brandished a knife quite cunning
“Tis’ a shame your children aren’t here to see what I shall do to you, sweet.
Tis’ a shame they won’t know what to say when you are completely gone,”
I blinked with surprise, astonishment in my eyes, while my lips curled into a sneer,
“Do what you please, but when I die, you must abide to these rules as well, my sweet,”
He nodded stiffly and listened closely as I leaned in close and said,
“Don’t tell them what I hide beneath, don’t touch my steps with your filthy feet, don’t tell them what I hide beneath, or else,” I glared,
“I shall make you pay,”
And so he pressed the knife against my throat, both firm and very bold
A squelch, a squeal, a thrashing moment before everything went cold
He dragged my body messily across the polished marble floors,
He dragged my body and then he dropped me,
Right past the cellar door.
And to this day, I must say, and all I know concurs
at the end of the day, still nobody knows what is in my cellar.
How about a bedtime story? A change of tone, my heathens. I hope you don’t mind that it isn’t Sunday.
Today, I speak with you all personally about a dream I once had when I was a very small child. The thing about being a child is that there is so much that appears to be beautiful in our eyes. From the way water trickles down the driveway after the car is washed to the way the lavender-colored trees sway to and fro on a very windy day because they are just so enormously tall. A sparkle and twinkle in your eye, a grin spread so wide that it may just be good for something later on. Ah, and your hands were so small, just like all the clothes you used to wear.
Or perhaps you used to live near the sea? Where breezes were mingled with salt and water and the skies had a constant grey overcast, it can’t always be sunny after all. But there were still days where the sand would become littered in shovels and pails and little moulds of turtles and seahorses. Lighthouses that never really worked the way you thought they would. Wooden fences wearing down because the sea kept trying to face plant into it. How the world seemed so divided once your feet moved from sand to black asphalt, so different.
Maybe you lived somewhere stranger, like near a bog or marsh? I’ve never been to a place, but I know a dear friend who has. They live there in peace and fill my nights with love stories between cloud gods and thunder strikes, hot weather and rainy weather, the cool darkness of their room compared to the warm embrace of a million bedsheets.
Strange and crazy things happening right under your nose that they couldn’t possibly tell me for…reasons, I suppose.
It is such a pretty world we live in that sometimes I forget the monsters that plague us everyday. I forget the cruel truth of friendships and love, how the two seem so unbreakable yet, are truly very fragile.
I feel like we are stepping on a glass marble that will shatter under our heels at any given moment. So strange, yet so familiar.
I am happy we can be content in knowing that our existences are fragile. I am so happy.
Goodnight, my heathens. May your slumbers be ever peaceful.
Why can’t feeling be bought at the gas station
Amnesia sold in bottled plastic,
Emptiness poured in soup cans,
Empathy packed in air-tight bags,
With shrink wrap seals
And alarm-rigged boxes
But trauma is free to those that don’t want it