It was the worst of times when you were getting high on marijuana laced with cocaine, while waiting for a woman to save you from the Odysseys of your sinful pleasures. Only except it wasn’t pleasure, neither pain, but a downtrodden path to self destruction. You couldn’t let God save you for He wasn’t doing much talking, or better yet you saw Him in the woman you once loved, cared for and who broke you. A woman you fought for, sacrificed for, defended and took her as if she was yours, though temporary. And when the time came, in your sprees of being drunkenly lost in bottomless darkest pits, she never showed up.
It was the worst of times when you were sleepwalking on the balcony because doors were shut. And the guys you skunked cocaine with, became Judas sent to force you into a better place. Though high, you made promises you couldn’t keep. You thought falling in love could be the absolute salvation, but then again your words meant nothing. Completely nothing. The thought of a good woman crossed your mind. Sadly, good women moved on long before you came into being. For now, unto them you exist like a little demon. Something feared and loved, and ultimately despised. The love of a good woman couldn’t save you.
It was the worst of times when strangers did the unthinkable. When drugs and suicidal thoughts clouded one’s mind, and the walls kept closing in. Thoughts catapulted broken pieces. Basking in the cold at night. You thought the love of a good woman could save you, but the good woman didn’t know anything about you. Or maybe the compassion she had for you, was all gone. Or perhaps replaced by something better. Her craves still yearn for you. How does it feel to have a last resort, only for it to fail you?
It was the worst of times, when all you had was to sleep on an empty bowel. There was no hope, and you done lost faith. It was beyond the reproach of your grasp. And so maybe you decided to give God a second chance to help lift you up. But the angels came cloaked in the devil’s suit. Stranger things in strange places stringing along darkness. Trust broken. Friends cut off. Disillusioned. Deserted and alone. Depression sunk in.
It was the worst of times, when the love of a good woman couldn’t save you. All the temporary shit you had to let go. Peeps who said shit which meant shit were full of shit. You couldn’t hold tomorrow hostage. You made plans and they blew on your face. You thought sex could heal your broken spine, but no, your insipid lovers were dead . Love isn’t what you said it was. Love isn’t you and I. Love isn’t when you dealt with depression and I didn’t do shit about it. It ain’t my responsibility anyway, kind of reasoning. Fuck You!
It was the worst of times when fire burnt vehemently the same way your ancestors were once tied on a post and burnt alive. You heard their screams and thought the same was your fate. A slave to the society you became. And so when the dying embers of the smoke faded, you asked a question, whether they knew how it felt to be woman trapped in the skin of a man. No one answered. Or better yet, they thought you gay, but confirmation was never needed. For they judged you anyway. Perfect, yes we’re not. The love you had desperately wanted to share was never accepted. Your grave you preempted.
It was the worst of times, and Rainbows all over couldn’t save you nor make you belong, when within you were estranged. Your identity mistaken. You were labelled. You could sell yourself to the highest bidder but that would prove their point. The kind of love you had to give was the kind no one would take. The scars cut you deep. Your scars cracked your skull, and on cement, blood flowed. You laid still.
It was the worst of times when everyone came to bid goodbye. “Amen, we’re one demon down.” It was a victory for them, a loss for me. I lost a friend.
Phill Ibsen, Master of Descriptions.
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