little lamb-girl, don't cry

lamb, fawn, it's all the same tragic tale to me

i like to think of myself as a lamb. child of a laboured spring and sprung from a fountain of innocence. out on the open grass, sunshine spilling over the first buds of cotton wool beginning to cover my eyes in mystified glory. 

or maybe a fawn. frolicking in woodlands green, running from mother to sister to aunt and never quite finding my feet. gingerly nursing wounds, alone in a copse of trees amongst bluebells they told me would never die. but they did after all and now i watch as the cars on the motorway hit another one of my relatives. a statistic, now.

things are hopeless now. in my clouded mind a picture begins to form of myself, weeping. where a tiny lamb once lay in the arms of girlhood, there is now blood. love has given way to loss and hope to despair and now i can feel the tiny mites crawling over my skin begging for a piece of the restlessness i am drowning in -

interval. the april showers subside and i am just a lamb again. the barn is cold and wet but my mother's warmth is next to me, and in the corner i hear bleating faintly from another young angel pushed out into hell. from night to dawn nothing happens. i stay awake, a child sent to guard and watch out for absolutely nothing.

whispers pass themselves along the breeze and under the small gap of the barn-door. my open, unsuspecting ears fall prey to cruel words and angry sighs. i have been trying to pacify the world since i was born, but the waves just never calm. time and time again the walls inflict their passive bruises on me, reddening my cheeks and pushing me forth, out for the crowd to jeer at. i stand unsteady on four newborn legs, a sacrifice to an altar that was decimated centuries ago. how much more does it take for martyrdom to fall?

cousin once told me humans key their cars. i do not understand what separates a man who destroys hearts and a woman who destroys souls from each other. i guess it’s just something i’ll find out myself once they release me from the woods. i also don’t understand why angels are drawn to devils all the time.

desperation is key. people like the power of an innocent soul ruining themselves just for them, begging at their feet for a salvation that will probably never come but they can hope. here, in my mind’s farm, i can watch the humans and laugh at them from a pedestal. how sweet it is to be a poor lamb yet how bitter the taste is on my tongue when they massacre my values. desperation is key because without it they won’t listen to your cries as you are dragged away for shearing.

oh, but i am safe. the roof of this house shelters me with red bricks and love. the woodland is calm and peaceful while all the world burns on the doorstep. the barn is warm while outside winter reigns. music drifts softly out of crevices. deer just like me nurse their young in the grass and bound happily from tree to tree. an illusion of innocence blankets everyone here, white gauzy veils covering whatever blackened hearts have faded to ashes inside.

these men will never know how it feels to burn happily.

summer is soon. i see the sky’s blush turn to fiery rage. across the field, the farmer mows the grass. i am supposed to be enjoying things. i am supposed to be grateful for the fact that i am not the one whose neck is on the block. but i can’t really, not when i know eventually it’ll be my mother’s and then eventually mine.

there are - voices - in the woodland and i don’t know when they’ll leave.

anahita xx

~ diary of a doll <3