Let she who is without sin, cast the first stone.

re⋅cid⋅i⋅vism /rɪˈsɪdəˌvɪzəm [ri-sid-uh-viz-uhm] –noun
1.
repeated or habitual relapse, as into crime.
2.
Psychiatry. the chronic tendency toward repetition of criminal or antisocial behavior patterns.

Decades have gone by, all the while we keep looking at that mirror. Snow White's step mother asked, 'Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is fairest of them all?' Desperate to beautiful, she preened the savagery that came from the all-consuming obsession.

The mirror never lies. It always tells you what you want to hear. We ask it to tell us that we are ugly, too fat, scarred, mutilated, not worth loving. We commit this crime each and every day. We tend to the needs of the mirror, ensuring that it is clean enough to reflect our sins. We look for evidence of imperfection. We hate, we loathe, we constantly remind ourselves of the repulsive nature of our souls.

We wonder why children are sad. We don't understand why little girls don't want to grow up. We cry when children tell us that they are not worth loving. The answers should be clear.

It is a cyclical crime; its recurring nature realised too late - when the damage has been done.

Flowers for Algernon.

Today I wish that I wasn't like Algernon. I don't want to be aware of how the world works. I don't want to have to listen to people's inane banter and pretend that I think it is worthwhile discussion. And then, I wish I could be like Algernon, slowly decaying; going back to a place oblivious to the world around.

The only problem is that Algernon dies in the end (and I don't particularly want to die) and that in order to slowly decay, one has to be aware of the decay. No Thanks.

I am left with no choice. I must sit, listen and pretend that I do not understand how the world works. How I wish that intelligence did not bring with it an acute understanding of how different one is to others.

This is my whinge, my selfish little rant for the day. It's because the tears don't come. They never do. *sigh*

Recidivism

Hands mould, abuse, shame and control

A marred psyche plagued by cheloid scarring.

Mirror, mirror in my eye

Surely you will tell no lie.

Repulsion; truthful observations of the temple.

Distorted perceptions provoking metamorphosis.

A scalpel to flesh, needle and thread.

Stitch.

One stitch, two stitch, guilt stitch, filth stitch.

Mercury tainted window - quicksilver reflecting a cumbersome vow.

The looking glass lined with sin,

Casting aspersions forth with flippant disregard.

Polishing cloth recoils with each stroke,

Collecting the shards of mercurial dust that have accumulated over time.

Desperate cleaning, searching for echoes of the past.

A patient history waiting ominously to be revealed -

A hoped for barrage of self-loathing

Each attempt to define the tarnished image trapped in the mirror

Erodes the meticulously applied silvering.

The dust shifts, the cloth sloughing away the surface,

Revealing the true nature of the crime.

No longer a mirror, the glass exposes an innocent child,

Who, wide-eyed, learns how she too must behave.

Return of the Prodigal Poet

Hmmmm, nice name for a poem (maybe - sounds a bit too 'Star Wars', but it was catchy). Apologies to all. I hope that my hiatus hasn't put you off long term, but I am back :)

I have bought LAND in beautiful Emerald and look forward to living a more sustainable and environmentally friendly life.

I look forward to chatting with you all again.