secrets at bay : plankeye

All women are born women.

They long for men because men are merely children, and it is good to know a child's love.

The child that leads us is adorned with a suit of armor; soft skin protecting a hardened heart.

This suit is called a man.

It is nothing more than a defense.

She confesses her sins to a listening night. Bent down and doubled over are the contrite, however, she stands with her head held high, eyes wide like bowls being filled with a liquid light that shines through the stained glass sky. She no longer fears the stars.

All men are born with wisdom.

As they become older, they trade their wisdom for knowledge, and their knowledge for power and their power for a place between a woman's legs, until eventually they are nothing more than a stupid child suffocating inside a deflated suit of armor.

It is a horrible thing to remember being wise once, before putting on a man.

As it goes, a man is a horrible thing.

Rosary beads dangle from her tightened fist like a fallen kite trapped in the grasp of a greedy tree. She passes the pulpit with a hurried sense of duty and stops just shy of the towering crucifix that hangs above her head, suspended by taught metallic wire. There is no prayer for forgiveness, no psalm of gratitude. Her grip squeezes the necklace in her hand with relentless tension until the string breaks, allowing the beads to fall and scatter at her feet.

All children are born from hope.

They are not innocent as they would seem but instead more attune to purity.

Their bodies have not been burdened with the weight of the world.

Their souls have not been scathed with the flames of hurt.

They are as burning candles, slowly melting into time and we should know better to cherish their light.

She gazes at the iron mold of Christ;   limbs, stretched out and held in place by nine-inch nails, a crown of thorns pressed firmly down into his already beaten brow, lashes from a hungry whip stretched across his surrendered flesh, and an open gash between his bruised and broken ribs. "I wouldn't have been as merciful" she exhales with a murderous breath. "I wouldn't have let you die as easily as that." With a fiery contempt, she removes her clothes and begins to climb.

All humans are born again.

They remain as such until the day their dust returns to dust.

One birth takes place inside the hollow womb, the other just outside the womb's domain- where they are born, truly born again.

The spirit is the spark that fills the flesh; the flesh becomes the child that we know – but – what do we know?

With legs wrapped tightly around the waist of the hanging statue, she brings herself face to face with the slaughtered lamb of god.   Her arms extend with his; hands grasping the iron nails protruding from inanimate palms. His chest is cold and lifeless against her naked breasts as she begins to thrust her hips in one fluid motion.   Her mouth hovers above his, their lips occupying one space, one moment in time. They kiss, and as she reaches climax, her head tilts back to reveal two weeping eyes and one defiant smile.

"I forgive you", she whispers with peaceful betrayal.  Relaxing her now weakened thighs and throwing her own arms out to her side, she plummets to the Parrish floor and breathes her last.

All women are born women.

They long for men because men are merely children and it is good to know a child's love.

The child that leads us is adorned with a suit of armor; soft skin protecting a hardened heart.

This suit is called god.

It is nothing more than a defense.