lost in the woods and afraid of heels
The Nature of Gothic:
By margarat attwood
I show you a girl running at night
Among trees that do not love her
And the shadows of many fathers
Without paths, without even torn bread or white stones
Under a moon that says nothing to her.
I mean it says: Nothing.
There is a man nearby
Who claims he is a lover
But smells of plunder.
How many times will he have to tell her
To kill herself before she does?
It is no use to say
To this girl: You are well cared for
Here is a safe room, here
Is food and everything you need.
She cannot see what you see.
The darkness washes toward her
Like an avalanche. Like falling.
She would like to step forward into it
As if it were not a vacancy
But a destination,
Leaving her body pulled off
And crumpled behind her like a sleeve
I am the old woman
Found always in stories like this one,
Who says, go back, my dear.
Back is into the cellar
Where the worst is,
Where the others are,
Where you can see
What you would look like dead
And who wants it.
Then you will be free
To choose. To make
Your way.
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Reflections on Atwood:
-Z
My alter ego,
Is a girl
Running somewhere
Through a forest of loveless foliage.
A man in waiting
Perhaps in the trees
Or behind a stone
Beast or man
Lover or destroyer
These adjectives are redundant in this context.
She is running toward him
The marauder of her heart
Because honestly,
Lost in the wood
Where else do you go?
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-Z
I’ll clip my hair close.
It’s no rope ladder.
Don’t get any ideas.
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The insomniac is a woman
-Z
Tomorrow
I will wake up
and I will wear men as my hats
accessorize.
and I will have no need of them
greater than the need
of a woman for her shoe
or her lipstick
or her purse.
Tomorrow
I will wake up
and I will regard all my pretty things
accessories.
and I will have no need of them
as they do not complete me
or fill me
or bring me real joy.
Tomorrow
I will wake up
and I will not be a woman
an accessory
to the life of men
and I will have no need of my hair
or my ovum
or my hats.
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~The Stick Turned Blue
-Z
An exquisite wet dream
the masculine fetish
she sits.
Her flesh falls soft, in fabric draping curves.
Tendrils pushing out of her skull,
(parasitic leeches in waves of rippled gold)
she clutches a pair of safety scissors
wondering, which limb?
Rapunzel is waiting.
~Ephebophilia
-Z
the passive sleep
preserved heroine. yellow. Brittle.
She is a hollow pressed flower.
A dry bone.
An IV of pomegranate
the tart syrup congeals in her veins
and her lips stain with a smear
all bodies who choose to touch.
take your turn.
she is two things, split like a fruit
visited by gelatinous leechs
who would till her flesh in search
for a bucket of nails
(lifes seed)
and quench their dry sponge gums
on her syrupy sweat
gooey and coagulating
in her creases.
but the soil is dead. She is a dry hole.
Filled with rotten acorns.
remembering
the
wet smell
of green.
and whispering
When I die,
I hope there will be no more dreams.