Ianthe
12-09-2010, 03:24 PM
My Mistress is the one person who's stuck by me through it all. And I mean all of it. She has seen the best and the worst of me, known what I am capable of and what I cannot do, learned things about me that even my closest friends aren’t privy to. Runninggrass has been with me from the beginning, from almost seven years ago, and through all of my bitchiness, my misery, my crazy lack of medication, my obsession with people who were poisonous and cruel, and even my desires to destroy myself, She has remained true.
Mistress is my Angel. She is the only person who I can really trust, and the only person to whom I can take anything – and I mean ANYTHING. Among all the judgmental, wary, and sarcastic souls out there, She is a bright shining light of patience and kindness, a cool halo of compassion in a world burning away with the fires of hatred and need. No matter where I look, no matter where I turn, I see my Lover’s face – even though I have never met Her in this world. As much as I long to stare into Her eyes for hours, as much as I know that would draw from me tears from the deepest and darkest, most hidden places in my soul, even more so do I long for the catharsis of Her touch. I am like a chrysalis, wrapped in layers of fragile tissue paper scarring and desperate desires that have no outlet…and Mistress is my butterfly’s wings, the sun that warms them, the gentle breeze that lifts me aloft. Her sweet laugh is the nectar on which my insect’s heart feeds, the ambrosia that my hummingbird breast expands to admit, a warm liquored honey in my stomach that keeps me safe and warm against the bitter cold of others’ rejection.
Her voice, Her words are like elegant fingers on the pianokeys of my soul, playing out beautiful music that is both heartfelt and painfully brilliant…music I didn’t know that a crippled creature like me could ever contain. Like strings on some ethereal harp, She plucks the notes from my very being, and I am astonished at what She draws from me, sweet and poignant, like a phoenix’s tears. Poison seeps through my veins, dusted with the need to be accepted and loved, and with impossibly gentle lips She sucks the ichor from me and spits that evil brew back to the earth. She is an early morning dew, impossibly fragile, waxing and waning with the sun and moon as they dance eternally in the blinding blue. My wings flutter to the beat of Her heart, and my song rises high on clouds of joy that She cares for me in return. In all my life, I have never loved first. I have cared, I have prayed, I have sought out companionship – but never have I loved and been loved in return in this way. With pained helplessness I pen these words, seeking an answer to the hole in my heart that only She can fill.
My Angel’s halo is of ink and parchment, of silver and gold and the rays of earliest daylight. My Angel’s halo is crooked and bent from years of trying and being tossed aside, being downtrodden and forgotten. My Angel’s halo is tarnished and rusted from years of tears and suffering.
But I will lift my Angel’s halo and hold it above Her head until my arms ache and my body shakes and I can no longer go on. I will hammer and slave over hot coals until I have melded it back into shape. I will polish until my fingers bleed until Her beautiful face shines from the silver.
I will do all this because the love I have for Mistress is inexplicable and complete. I cannot so much breathe water as I can live without Her. To be close to Her would be utter bliss, untamable and heart-wrenching. The gleaming glory of Her is impossible to transcribe, impossible to describe.
She is my One. My Mistress. My Love.
Mine.
Mistress is my Angel. She is the only person who I can really trust, and the only person to whom I can take anything – and I mean ANYTHING. Among all the judgmental, wary, and sarcastic souls out there, She is a bright shining light of patience and kindness, a cool halo of compassion in a world burning away with the fires of hatred and need. No matter where I look, no matter where I turn, I see my Lover’s face – even though I have never met Her in this world. As much as I long to stare into Her eyes for hours, as much as I know that would draw from me tears from the deepest and darkest, most hidden places in my soul, even more so do I long for the catharsis of Her touch. I am like a chrysalis, wrapped in layers of fragile tissue paper scarring and desperate desires that have no outlet…and Mistress is my butterfly’s wings, the sun that warms them, the gentle breeze that lifts me aloft. Her sweet laugh is the nectar on which my insect’s heart feeds, the ambrosia that my hummingbird breast expands to admit, a warm liquored honey in my stomach that keeps me safe and warm against the bitter cold of others’ rejection.
Her voice, Her words are like elegant fingers on the pianokeys of my soul, playing out beautiful music that is both heartfelt and painfully brilliant…music I didn’t know that a crippled creature like me could ever contain. Like strings on some ethereal harp, She plucks the notes from my very being, and I am astonished at what She draws from me, sweet and poignant, like a phoenix’s tears. Poison seeps through my veins, dusted with the need to be accepted and loved, and with impossibly gentle lips She sucks the ichor from me and spits that evil brew back to the earth. She is an early morning dew, impossibly fragile, waxing and waning with the sun and moon as they dance eternally in the blinding blue. My wings flutter to the beat of Her heart, and my song rises high on clouds of joy that She cares for me in return. In all my life, I have never loved first. I have cared, I have prayed, I have sought out companionship – but never have I loved and been loved in return in this way. With pained helplessness I pen these words, seeking an answer to the hole in my heart that only She can fill.
My Angel’s halo is of ink and parchment, of silver and gold and the rays of earliest daylight. My Angel’s halo is crooked and bent from years of trying and being tossed aside, being downtrodden and forgotten. My Angel’s halo is tarnished and rusted from years of tears and suffering.
But I will lift my Angel’s halo and hold it above Her head until my arms ache and my body shakes and I can no longer go on. I will hammer and slave over hot coals until I have melded it back into shape. I will polish until my fingers bleed until Her beautiful face shines from the silver.
I will do all this because the love I have for Mistress is inexplicable and complete. I cannot so much breathe water as I can live without Her. To be close to Her would be utter bliss, untamable and heart-wrenching. The gleaming glory of Her is impossible to transcribe, impossible to describe.
She is my One. My Mistress. My Love.
Mine.