Offer a Hand and a Thought-Filled Word

On the day after, my Piano Man and I stood by the sink, holding each other’s heart close. There was, perhaps, some raging and weeping and dreading… My dread was not inspired by Trump, or by the so-called better America he plans to create. I dread, dread, dread what his behavior towards women, immigrants, the disabled, Muslims and pretty much towards anyone who he deems dangerous or not pretty enough symbolizes… what the words that ooze out of his mouth have emboldened some to do.

I know more than one decent person who voted for Trump—individuals who truly believe this man will make things better for everyone. I disagree with their views, but I know they are not evil. They are not the ones ripping hijabs off faces, desecrating safe places, or shouting that the color of my skin, my beliefs and my first language don’t belong in the country whose freedom I’ve helped protect.

I’ve read so many ugly words these last few days… so much nasty name-calling… and blatant hatred towards all Trump supporters. We can’t do this to each other. I know that a lot of filth has crawled out to stink up our country. But we must remember that this is not true of every person who voted for him. Most important, we must not forget that no one learns by being kicked in the head.

I am, by no means, suggesting we shouldn’t be angry. When gloom threatens, bottled up emotions can be a dangerous thing. Be furious. Be miserable. Be outraged. Be disgusted. Be kind to those in need… be a thinker.

A lot of people are afraid, my Wicked Luvs. And the yelling and blaming is only making their fears more pronounced. This is not the time to kick all Trump supporters in the gut, but the day to offer a hand and a thought-filled word to anyone who is too scared to think clearly. Remind them that in you, they can find safety… and, of course, a soul willing to rage with them until the bad energy is spent.

safety-pin-and-pentacle

She Will Mourn in Darkness Nevermore

Fear oozes through the skin of her palms and makes her hopes clammy. She breathes… The scent of passionflower dances into her thoughts, calms her into taking a tiny first step towards the door. The studio is too dark for her to see the deadbolt or security chain, but the echoes of their laughter bites into her bones. Tears feed the gloom, and fill her vision with vintage rage.

in the dark,
anxiety and dreams
wish to fly

Anger begins to brew in the hollow of her throat, it consumes her wails, sharpens her teeth, roses her cheeks. She eats the distance between fear and the door, magics the darkness away with a flick of a switch. The foyer mirror shows her a face beautified and bolstered by the kicks of Fate’s steel thorned boots. She breathes… twists the deadbolt and unchains her safety cage.

sunlit soul
tasting tomorrow
in the bones

Hurt is too dark or too bright energy that squeezes much too tight, she breathes her thoughts into the world… she flies.

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the wee notes…
– Partly inspired by the following Terry Pratchett quote, in The Wee Free Men: “…anger was better than fear. Fear was a damp cold mess, but anger had an edge. She could use it.”
– Written for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads (Weekend Mini-Challenge – Trying “No More”), Sanaa’s Prompt Nights (Love of beauty is taste. The creation of beauty is Art.), Expanding Bits of Fiction and Poetry into Haibun (12), and for Rereading My Pratchett.
– P.S. If you’ve yet to join May Monster Madness, 2016, you should take a look-see. 😉

Mourn, by Magaly Guerrero

Wicked Grins Do Wonders for the Skin

Someone enraged me before coffee. And the brain doesn’t act right before it has been properly kissed by its hot beverage of choice. I almost wrote a rambling post about soul-sickening people, about verbally smacking them until my hammering words bled some sense out of their skulls.

Then I recalled what I told the Little Princess when she asked, “Why don’t you hate anybody?”

“Hating people is exhausting business,” I said to her. “I rather save that kind of energy to plan obliteration and defenestration.” She laughed; defenestration lives in her bag of favorite words.

The image of the Little Princess roaring at the idea of someone being hurled out of a window completely appeased the rage brewing in me. What can I say? I’m ruthlessly weird like that. And a healthy dose of wicked grins does wonders for my witchy skin.

raging morn;
but on the Witch’s face,
curly grins
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linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Magaly (Jan 11, 2016)