Each card I turn leads me closer to the truth, the me that was and could have been. The me that would have prospered or become someone unrecognizable — horrible. Perhaps they could have been me, the one who rests in the shadows of my mind behind locked doors. The ghost.

The tarot only gives so much as I continue to turn each card over to view its face. The faces of truth I, unknowingly, blocked out. The things my family that only I can see kept hidden in the same shadows that the other me lives in.

The me that liked to hurt things to hurt myself. Including myself. The me that licks at the scabs until they become eternal and never heal, and I revel in the taste of copper as it reminds me that I am like the dirt of this Earth. I am not a star. My energy lies beneath the feet of those who walk on me.

I want to make love to my darkness until I have fallen in love with the fear and no longer am repelled by it. I want to love the shadows pacing the darkest parts of my hallway — the ones who follow me in waiting and watch over my shoulder. I want to love them and in turn, I want them to love me.

I am no stranger to loving what I fear, and loving that which brings me pain. I am a masochist, a self-destructive doll who falls before the feet of anyone willing to love what I’ve become. Pick me up and throw me against a wall, and place a pin of Voodoo magic into my heart so I can belong to someone — something — that can’t let me go.

For all I really want is to be wanted. To become cherished dirt. Love me and then hurt me, and love me again before the pain returns. It is what I am given, and it is all that has lasted long enough to call home. Good is nothing more than a passing daydream.

After all, the purpose of dirt is to feed the worms.

©2021 Shane Blackheart


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