The surreal terroist

I have this painting, by Salvador Dali.
It hangs in the living room.
Its an egg with part of a man hatching
out of the egg. The paining is bland of all color,
with the exception of one drop of blood,
falling from the crack in the egg.
Salvador is one of the worlds greatest surrealist,
at least that's what I think.
He was spectacular at making
you see, what was really not there,
but there.....

If I could; I would weep tears of blood for you;
cut out a major organ ,for you;
jump in front of a truck, for you;
greet death in your place, for you;
risk my life, for you;
to allow you the opportunity to live.

How many nights have I wept for you.
Waking up to the tears,
drowning in snot,
experiencing a full range of emotion in the darkness,
in the early morning hours before dusk.
Inability to cry out to you,
to cry out for you, wailing.

You have become the emotional terrorist,
awaiting your moment to become a martyr.
Carrying your load of bomb making materials on your back.
Waiting for the last moment.
Blaming me for all that has occurred.
Every thing you have ever done wrong.
Every misfortune you have ever incurred;
emotional hostage taking,
destruction,
it did not kill the by-standers.

Daily I am barraged with wounds,
you have not killed me, oh, not yet.
You just wound me. Not mortally; oh, not yet.
Bit by bit the first blast ripps off my left arm; tearing it from its socket,
exposing bloody, fleshy, white meat.
I am bleeding profusely, and I can feel the color draining from my
face.

BAM...
the second blast gives me a compound fracture of my leg,
bone peeking out at the knee,
The pain is so intense, opening my mouth to yell in pain,
and nothing but air comes out.
I see a bright light in the etched blackness, my nose sucking
in air, my mouth open.
No sound....
I am falling, I have not fainted, not yet.
I feel as if I am gasping for air, but I am not breathing.
My chest is hot, and I know I am suffocating.
My mind is reeling of thoughts,
knowing that you are killing me, and you have every intention
of making me suffer.
I have not died, not yet.

I am the one person you love to hate,
and hate to love.
I love you and you stab me with a dagger just
below my Brest plate.
Blood dribbles down my clean
white t-shirt.
You smile with a certain satisfaction.
I am dumbfounded how? why? what? who?
could do this.
Why, not just do it quickly.
Shoot me in the head and let my
cranium splinter all over the room.
At least it will end quickly.
No, that's not good enough.
You want me
to FEEL something,
You want to see me FEEL something....
You want me to cry for you,
to cry blood, and make things right.

Minute by minute,
hour by hour,
day by bay.
You work at taking my life,
but you will not let me die, but you are
not going to let me live.

You are like Salvador Dali,
You want people to see what is really not there,
but there....

© 2011 Stefanie Stevens