The Father and the Night Child

It is a night thing. She is a thief of herself. It only hurts until she makes the cut. The flowing of blood, beginning of the end... ..releases her again. The cake was dressed with thirteen candles; 'Happy Birthday, Winter Child'. And she wore the shadow of an expected smile, having shed the veil of Childhood. So easily torn, the maiden. When the lights go out, she makes a darker place to separate her white skin to the glory of the red ribbon. It flows out, ties her to the future, binds her to her sin. Euphoric, glorious madness, one Child running, falling down... and down, pinpoints of light tickling her senses, far river of pain, flowing free to relieve her and leave her. What power she becomes, the weapon of her truth. And the night swallows, covers her eyes, carries her away to be embraced by the heavens, a dark Angel bleeding. There is a crimson glow on the edge of her madness, a faint heartbeat.. red lights.. white sheets.. .. black flame.. tortured candle.. nightmare.. .. hospital.. No! Landscape of tears, flourescent night, dull reflection the flat planes of her eyes make, mirrors of innocence lost, a tiny spark of life... hope. They understand. "What?!?" she cries. Good, let it all out. "Leave me alone!" Share your pain. "I tried... I want to..." You cannot go home. "You cannot keep me here!" We must.. and tomorrow.. prepare yourself.. father's coming. "Oh God, no!" He is coming. "No! I cannot face him... he knows.. I hurt.." We know. "No... him.. I hurt him." The path of forgiveness, carpet of thorns, guilt, and blame. Only time suffers, suffers it well. Only time knows its name. In its passing it is healing. What cannot be is done. What cannot be said is said. Each moment lived too quickly becomes the past. All that matters has past become, before the deed is after.. done. She moves by the broken pieces, brushes them off, rearranges, pays the hard debt to self and regret. She picks herself up, broken Angel, makes her mouth to laugh again. Her dark spirit makes a feast of life's moments and sometimes she doesn't go there again. The spirit wanders in the shadow of new pain and a new day to follow. The cake was dressed with sixteen candles; 'Happy Birthday, Winter Child'. And she wore pieces of a new self, the brave expression, her eyes, those of a survivor. Brothers and sisters, mother watching, her favorite uncle and she wishes for... all of them, finds him there. Father holds her; they weep, breathe melancholy sighs and never goodbye.