Mary Bennet and the Lake of Fire



You want me to back off of this.  You are so damned sure that I will.  You think this conversation is over, completed, can be filed away under carrots smoothed.  You would prefer it if I never brought it up again, but you feel certain that when this night is done, whether I address these issues again or not, that you will be able to manipulate me into fear yet again.  You will be able to decide what size I am, what words I use, when I open my lips.  You would like to believe that there is no inner fire that has been lit.  No pilot light, no bellwether, no beginning of a tide that wants so desperately to turn.  You would, ideally, install some sort of clamp or vise or zipper over my lips and I would be silent ever more.  A creature, like you, who lives in a corner, your very best corner creature sort of friend.

We are fighting now.

It’s scary because you do have Hercules-size muscles, but that’s only because you have had decades of working them out as you’ve worked me over.  No wonder it is hard as fuck to say no to you, to pull away from what has been into something new.  You clobber any obvious movements towards the door, and I have been drug back on my knees by that cord, that rope, that power you have, that I have been convinced that there is nothing to fight.  This is just the motion of life: tentative steps followed by the hard snap of facts and reality, your two big barrels.  You can convince anyone out of anything and it’s nearly impossible not to be a bit awestruck by that ability when it’s applied outside the confines of this pretty little body that cradles you.  Nearly.  But not entirely.

You are starting, and I feel the punchdrunk reeling as you rear back, to realize that the assumptions you hold so dear, so true, so blue sky and arithmetic and what’s good for the gosling is best for the goose are failing us.  They are failing me and you and this pretty little body we share.  You don’t lord over us in some sort of Eng and Chang style situation, three nights in one house, three nights in the other, a trade on the Sabbath.  No.  I am not your constituency.  I am not here to be represented by your parenting, your best advice.  Your honeyed words as the hairbrush goes for the full hundred strokes.  We’re not going to get out every carrot.  We’re not going to stir out every lump.

Things will still beautiful regardless.   Things will still be without your attentive hand yanking on their arm away from the fire.

I said tonight that I wouldn’t go down into the bloody temple with bodies impaled on the wall, I’d know better.  That’s my good sense.  That has nothing to do with cringing at potholes, bunching up from an absence in the blood, nothing to do with your crone’s shepherd’s hook, pushing and pulling and driving this flock off this cliff.

I know what is true.  And there are different answers now.


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