Who will be my brother…

Is there anyone out there AT ALL…that will not shrink away from me in fear, that will not look at me and quickly look away with nervousness and fidgeting arms? Is there anyone that can see the gentle child behind these fangs…behind the eyes and inside the lines? The hands that stay in the pockets because they’re afraid to do something wrong?

I keep thinking that. How helpless do i have to appear in order to get a small smile or even a glance? Am I really that scary and rigid and fierce? Not nice or sweet enough to be your sister in christ? Do I just have a face that no one wishes to speak to? I’m not mean, not rude, I always respond with a smile or at least a smirk, so what is it then?! Why are you all afraid of me?! Where did I go wrong? what was my mistake? Even those that I know, even those that say “I’m alone, too” are most certainly not! They have their outings, their friends that may not be the best, but they at least have someone!!

Not even my dearest see me as their dearest. I don’t ask for much, but I can tell when someone feels uncomfortable, when someone gets offended. I don’t ask that you shower me with kisses and praise, I don’t wish for fanfare and constant affection…I just need a small bit.

Is it because I don’t change who I am? Is this why?

You all have your lives, you all are fine without me… and don’t you even dare to say otherwise— because I know. I clench my shirt as my heart tugs inside me when I see your smiles when I’m not there, both of you! You that are near and you that are far!

 My eyes burn as I see you embrace each other and invite each other for a get-together in the eve; my chest heaves when I feel the isolation mocking me with a seductive whisper—telling me that alone is all I will ever have.

One way I know that God truely exists…is that there is someone out there that can handle me. I have not met him or her yet…but they’re out there.

So please, don’t pity me—just be honest with me, tell me what you think of me—and I’ll take my leave without wondering what my error was.

My Shade is turning gray. 

Between the hands of Scar and Sun.

I am as thunder—-Clothed in silver moon and dwelling in the sky. I am twice born, once of a daughter, once of the spirit colored comet. A Part of the picture of Creation, a picture of Great Spirit and Wonder.

But The Warriors… oh, the Warriors- each ventures on their own.

One clothed in moon, one clothed in Water, one wrapped in fire as a phoenix taking flight—if you like closely, you’ll see that Mirrors are what they have for eyes, for when you look at them, you see yourself—you see the deep scars and battle claws, blood stains and wretched pains. The warriors…oh, the warriors—-each ventures on their own.

Memories of things that I’ve never done, Times I’ve never had. Smiling as if I had remembered how great that day was, the little glimpses of things that only I would have noticed.

Visions of a Sky, Dreams of our mission, memories of a future, and the Wind whose name was “Destiny” surely did blow in each day, I remember it all.

…..but none of it has happened.

So instead of feeling sad for these times you’ve never had, Turn around— And let the wind’s direction guide you. Not just the wind that you feel on a nice spring day, but a divine wind—-one that perhaps only you feel at the times, but there’s no mistaking it’s strength and speed; it’s a pull inside you—-it’s a gentle voice as well.

 So Fear no sound. (Your Father is right beside you.)

The Dark Spirits will fear me, rejecting… infecting.

They will fear me because I’m one of these warriors, venturing on their own.

I don’t need someone to tell me (your vision will come true)

I’ll turn around—-and I’ll let the wind’s direction guide me.

Turn around.

And let the winds direction guide you.

Fear no sound

Your Father is here beside you.

This Wild, untamed and gentle child of the mountains in Sky.

Mountains in Sky, Brothers in song—-I wish you good luck, and know I still remember every day. This Chapter of wet pages and red stares is running too long.

I pull the cord on this monochrome machine, and set fire to start a destructive wave of scar and sun. Fire spews like orange paint on a fresh canvas, invading and creating. I’m sure there was gasoline spilled before this because I saw blinking lights and red and orange and fire that licked so high like a tiger’s tail and it just wouldn’t stop. I remember getting burned and breathing smoke and shooting at shadows in my head….did I point the gun to my head? If so I think I might of killed myself……

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But it turns out that I didn’t because I woke up and I was still on the white beach at night—my feet were wet from touching the tide, everything was navy blue but that color went away and there I lay on white sheets.

I had no desire to stand up. But I did anyway out of pure stubbornness.

I picked up the brush to my side—and started walking. It’s no secret as to where I’ve been, because there’s a messy splash of Onyx-deep black behind my hand, stretching like a marker for a hiker’s path. I saw a plane above my sight- it was on fire and I saw it crash behind the humongous pile of dusty books ahead, its smoke was red and I remembered this.

I looked back to the navy beach—no longer navy, of course; and I took a knife and severed the cord that tied me to that moist corner of tears and pain…I bled, but it was the only way I could reach.

I’ve pulled the cord on this monochrome machine—and I set my storm-colored eyes on that gentle child with mirrored eyes and hands of golden hue.

So many colors, so many eyes that hold the same cries.