Chaos or picket fence?

I want the white picket fence and the beautiful sun shining on my freshly cut green lawn. I want the children, brown haired and blue eyed, giggling on the swing set as they reach new worlds with their imagination. I want the perfect marriage: husband coming home with flowers and wearing a glowing smile as I embrace him passionately every day. I want the white picket fence to surround my perfect world. But do I really? Part of me craves insanity accompanied by multicultural chaos, swaying the bright green leaves into the violent wind and pulling the perfectly aligned grass out of its roots. Part of me is exhilarated by the thrill of the vicious storm that lies in my heart and becomes reality. The frenzied flashbacks of fleeting pain are paralleled by the outrageous lightning bolts of blistering fire. I love the confusing mixture of emotions erupting through the blood pumping out of my heart as I am both horrified and amazed by the systematic storm underlying in my heart and sky. Storms are the most powerful and pacifying when our internal pain, sharp and throbbing, is being expelled in the roaring screams and shrieks of the clouds. It is easier to relate to chaos when it flows directly out of your subconscious soul and into the world.

She lay there.

She lay there, still as a portrait. There was a simplicity to her beauty. Her eyes glistened with innocence and her smile reminded me of Christmas morning. Or the first signs of love. or the overwhelming smell of freshly fallen snow. Her skin was soft, gentle as the warmth of a mother. Something about her mesmerized me. Perhaps it was her simplicity or her innocence. or Perhaps something deeper. Perhaps it was her soul glowing through the outskirts of her body, shining through the purest pours of her skin. And perhaps, it was something deeper..

Prey vs Predator

My thoughts become paralyzed at the first sign of an outburst of anger. His defiant voice strikes me into weakness. The symptoms are obvious, but not often expected: anxiousness, tensed facial expression and demeaning comments. These debasing eruptions have been so common and influential to my state of happiness, or rather, lack of happiness, that the sound of his angered tone destructs my strength even when the anger is not directed toward me. Similar to how a child who has eaten a high quantity of vanilla ice cream may throw up and forever become nauseated by the smell of vanilla, I am forever incarcerated by the demons that arise from the slightest reminder of his voice. At that breaking moment in which time stops and I realize the events that are about to take place, I shelter my breaking heart in my soft, sensitive self-esteem. I prepare myself for what I can truly never be prepared for: the dissection of my personality, the deterioration of my soul. As it begins, I detach myself from the voice that controls every aspect of my utter being. I detach myself from the shattering soul that I literally feel crumpling inside the tense confines of my stomach muscles. And eventually, it ends. At some point, it must end. And the hardest part of the entire encounter is undergone: I must pretend to forgive him. I must try to forgive him. But it never really ends. It never completely goes away; it always comes back. It’s an endless cycle of preying on the innocence of others, depression, and being asked for forgiveness, being forgiven, and pouncing on them at the next opportunity you get. Forgiveness cannot be continuously granted, so be careful when you’re taking chances..

One day, I will not be your prey.