Tuesday, December 30, 2014
A girl once lived near a wishing well. The well had always called her.
And long she waited in curious ponderance but never allowed to touch the water.
Then, slowly, but surely as a waxing moon, our wide eyed doe grew beautiful
Where once had been a sweet-intentioned child grew a maiden of silk and sinew.
And still the well called
And still the girl was awed
Until at last a finger in the water;
Then beautiful toes and then all her.
And then did the tides dance inside her
And then did the maid understand
That the girl did deeply want a partner.
The well suggested she bring a man.
So, the maiden brought a boy or two to splash away in the pool there.
And play they did, with clumsy hands, the smell of sex in the air.
And the days were impossibly short, and the words were milky and mild.
But the maiden, you see, was not a maiden. The maiden's mind was a child.
And at last she brought a boy who, too
Had drunk deeply from the well he knew
And he tied her and bound her
Forced her ecstasy, and found her.
And of course, when he finished, he drowned her.
The death of innocence never seems, to me, to be gradual. Innocence never dies in her sleep. I imagine that is because she is so young. Innocence never dies of SIDS. Innocence never dies of a cancer we prepare her for. There is no hospice for Innocence. Innocence dies at the hands of a murderer, stabbing her as she lies upon the altar, confused but still, waiting; unwilling to believe that this could be the "real" ending. We watch and stand around shaking our heads saying, "I told you so" and "I knew this day would come" without being able to stop any of it at all.
I never write anymore. I wrote when I was innocent. I wrote when I wasn't afraid of the well. It seems, after innocence, I spend my time racing circles around my village so that I'd never have to see where my emotions lived. I never went back to the well. I don't believe anymore. Pragmatism has no magic like innocence, but no one drowns you for being pragmatic.
Posted by Jessi Boop