Herstory: The Guilty Child
When I was young I use to shield myself from the sun.
Passion would burn me up.
I was made up of fear
And the silence covered everything
And the silence was too much.
The Guilt was spilled everywhere,
Like rotten milk.
And it felt good to be forgiven.
Forgiveness was a gift,
A light that I could endure.
A familiar horror
Everyday I faced a hollow anguish
Hurt dreams and aching fantasies.
An injured innocence.
Where do dreams go when they die?
I lived in the nighttime, searched for the moonlight.
No light for my steps, not even the stars.
Patterns that fell away into the night.
An Intangible history.
The self dies
Or breaks in half.
A shade falls on elusive gardens
My eyes could never contain a reflection of the sunset.
And it feels good to be forgiven.
When I was young I use to shield myself from the sun.
Passion would burn me up.
I was made up of fear
And the silence covered everything
And the silence was too much.
The Guilt was spilled everywhere,
Like rotten milk.
And it felt good to be forgiven.
Forgiveness was a gift,
A light that I could endure.
A familiar horror
Everyday I faced a hollow anguish
Hurt dreams and aching fantasies.
An injured innocence.
Where do dreams go when they die?
I lived in the nighttime, searched for the moonlight.
No light for my steps, not even the stars.
Patterns that fell away into the night.
An Intangible history.
The self dies
Or breaks in half.
A shade falls on elusive gardens
My eyes could never contain a reflection of the sunset.
And it feels good to be forgiven.