Dedicated to all the mourners
Adelaide saw me seek companionship. I had
I met men who were well articulated and rehearsed, men who became the imposters of my life. Men who wreaked havoc and destruction, men who corrupted my innocence. Men who became more dangerous when aroused, men who were only around when the lights went down. Men who lacked authenticity, men who drove me into submission. Men who waved false wands, men who deeply misled, men who kicked away my pillars of hope.
Although wary of their promises, some part of me believed I was being looked after – that I was being offered a solution. The rigorous process soothed, at least a little, to some degree. The basic itch was addressed, but I was not satisfied. These men did not have to push, for love was a story I was already sold on, and maybe a story I overcompensated for. Though I felt duped, I believed the glitch lay within me.
Just like a magnifying glass, my sorrows were amplified. I began to develop a measure of learned
I lived in a twisted black hole of sin and chaos, where fire rained down on me, and a poisonous hatred consumed my heart. I festered in a place where thoughts drift rather than engage, constantly reminded of the insurmountable fractures in my life – the people I no longer spoke to, the parties I could no longer in good conscious attend. I was a woman of sorrows, a wingless angel, dismantled in the horror and the misery of her life. Chaos had followed me, surrounded me; and what once seemed startling became normal. I lived in a realm where the notion of retaliation became more relevant than that of provocation, which further accelerated my retreat from the world.
Words by Isla
Photography by Maria Petroff
This piece was originally published in Edition 28