Just Christina

Guest blog post by the fabulous Christina R. Williams 

 

I stand accused and fear I am guilty. Even now I flirt with idea of clinging to the anonymity provided by Christina R. Williams, author and poet, to ward against those with eyes to see. I suppose I was not so clever as I believed, believing that I could hide behind, beneath, between the lines poetry that I write. I’m not listed among the greats, among the legendary, and yet I feel as deeply, as greatly, as the greats ever did. However, therein lies the catalyst that created the conditions that mark me now as cold. Those who know me, know well, that the accusation couldn’t be farther from the truth, though I cannot fault those who perceive me in such a harsh light, for I’ve offered no personal, public, displays that would dissuade the notion. My guilt is in holding my tongue, my silence, for the sake of my pride and the cost of it has reached a level that astounds me. Never would I have imagined that so many would desire to know the woman behind the words that my, so called, walls of stone would even be noticed. Funny; I fear to speak in my defense for it reads like excuses, and I am not one who seeks, or wallows, in pity. For the truth is, I know, that for every trial I’ve faced that placed a stone, there are those who’ve conquered mountains and made them dust. The sorrow and suffering that I made mortar, others turned to honey, bitter-sweet perhaps, but used to soothe the pains of the past, where, at times, I’ve seethed instead. The truth is, the rage that razed my childhood, that haunted my heels from yesterday into today, has consumed the part of me that allowed others in, and, forging a new egress has taken a considerable tole considering the constant tinder added to the flames. The truth is, sickness, recurring and constant, has played its part in turning an introverted youth into an aged recluse, and the result is the woman speaking to you now. The truth is, I could talk to you about drugs, and guns, and the death that follows in their wake. I could talk to you about dastardly betrayals, of the parental kind, that broke both my spirit and mind. I could bombard you with horror stories written when forced on my back. Yeah, we could talk about that, and perhaps that would be enough to quell your curiosity as to my walls. However, you cannot look to my past and think to know me, and despite the walls that surround me, the me that you are wishing to know is revealed in the poetry that slips through the cracks of my cage. Perhaps the day will come when I can offer more, but for now, read the words as they are written and know they are my way of letting you in.


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