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Sorry Is The Hardest Thing...

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deborah777

deborah777

Executioner
I know what I am.

I know what they are calling me.

The nails that hold and define my body-no, my very soul...

The bleeding tatters of skin hanging from my polutted body.

The intense heat of the sun shining down upon a foreign girl's shame.

What is it to me?

What is it?

It is Nothing. Everything.

Just like me.

They look upon Nobody. Yet they look as intently as if the Mother Goddess herself were performing her death's dance for them...

I silently cry, unable to scream even as each movement of my frail small body burns in endless agony.

I try to think.

Try to control my own mind.

Have they even taken that out of my control?

28 years.

28 years of walks under the moonlight, passionate kissing, drawing water at the well, making dinner.

Nothing worth noting.

Nothing to negate this cross.

The shame of my nudity would not be as intense if I were innocent.

When I was but a young girl...this would be a travesty; now it is...what is it?

What is a woman naked on this cross?

My cross?

A fly teases my left eye for a moment, then leaves me to try to continue on the path of my ragged thoughts.

I am as much a part of this cross as it is part of me.

The cross exposes me fully, yet it mysteriously works as a mask reducing me to today's anonymous, nameless entertainment.

Is my name Deborah? Or Marta? Or Teasha?

It matters not.

Not at all.

A naked girl on a cross is a naked girl.

My face and ethnicity...my proud eastern heritage... only serve for an erotic backdrop to their lustful looks and jeers.

I lift my head...the blinding sun almost renders their cruel hungry faces irrelevant to my suffering.

What?

What am I?

What is a crucified woman?

What, not who.

Her humanity is so very real...and so very violated.

I can hardly breathe...

I strain...

My eyes close in shame as tears of guilt once again flow down my bruised and sunburnt cheeks...

Mea culpa.
 
thehangingtree said:
Please explain... The Seagram's is not translating...
Click to expand...
In the story by Tarquinius Rex, Didi is a slavegirl who is crucified with nails in her wrists and one through her sideways feet flat on the cross knees making a flattened diamond exposing her privates prominennly.

I love imaging I'm her. Deborah, Livia Cuxena, and Petra are my heroines who inspire me in my fantasies. :)
 
deborah777 said:
My eyes close in shame as tears of guilt once again flow down my bruised and sunburnt cheeks...

Mea culpa.
Click to expand...

The cross is so in- and overwhelming that every accusation must be accepted to understand why she has been convicted. We do not believe she is culpa but she cannot otherwise think. With this selfaccepting of her fate (my culpa in stead of their outspoken culpa) she can find the ultimate tranquillitas and forget her physic bloody vagina for a higher level in spiritual consciousness. That makes a creature really.
 
Fox-on-Cross said:
The cross is so in- and overwhelming that every accusation must be accepted to understand why she has been convicted. We do not believe she is culpa but she cannot otherwise think. With this selfaccepting of her fate (my culpa in stead of their outspoken culpa) she can find the ultimate tranquillitas and forget her physic bloody vagina for a higher level in spiritual consciousness. That makes a creature really.
Click to expand...
Perhaps this is another reason the cross has endured as a symbol of faith...? I know that, (allow me to be vulgar) when I fantasize or am tied to a cross or whipped I have orgasmed, cried, even prayed. Especially prayed, and I am not religious anymore. I can feel the crown of thorns and nails piercing my soft skin...feel the guilt on my head and body...I feel like I do die for my sins and the sins of the world.
 

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deborah777 said:
Perhaps this is another reason the cross has endured as a symbol of faith...? I know that, (allow me to be vulgar) when I fantasize or am tied to a cross or whipped I have orgasmed, cried, even prayed. Especially prayed, and I am not religious anymore. I can feel the crown of thorns and nails piercing my soft skin...feel the guilt on my head and body...I feel like I do die for my sins and the sins of the world.
Click to expand...
 
deborah777 said:
I know what I am.

I know what they are calling me.

The nails that hold and define my body-no, my very soul...

The bleeding tatters of skin hanging from my polutted body.

The intense heat of the sun shining down upon a foreign girl's shame.

What is it to me?

What is it?

It is Nothing. Everything.

Just like me.

They look upon Nobody. Yet they look as intently as if the Mother Goddess herself were performing her death's dance for them...

I silently cry, unable to scream even as each movement of my frail small body burns in endless agony.

I try to think.

Try to control my own mind.

Have they even taken that out of my control?

28 years.

28 years of walks under the moonlight, passionate kissing, drawing water at the well, making dinner.

Nothing worth noting.

Nothing to negate this cross.

The shame of my nudity would not be as intense if I were innocent.

When I was but a young girl...this would be a travesty; now it is...what is it?

What is a woman naked on this cross?

My cross?

A fly teases my left eye for a moment, then leaves me to try to continue on the path of my ragged thoughts.

I am as much a part of this cross as it is part of me.

The cross exposes me fully, yet it mysteriously works as a mask reducing me to today's anonymous, nameless entertainment.

Is my name Deborah? Or Marta? Or Teasha?

It matters not.

Not at all.

A naked girl on a cross is a naked girl.

My face and ethnicity...my proud eastern heritage... only serve for an erotic backdrop to their lustful looks and jeers.

I lift my head...the blinding sun almost renders their cruel hungry faces irrelevant to my suffering.

What?

What am I?

What is a crucified woman?

What, not who.

Her humanity is so very real...and so very violated.

I can hardly breathe...

I strain...

My eyes close in shame as tears of guilt once again flow down my bruised and sunburnt cheeks...

Mea culpa.
Click to expand...
Deborah, PP loves the way you have taken "who" to "what" violating her humanity
 
It's a great piece, Deborah. Very strong, very heartfelt. It captures our attention, takes us to that place, puts us in her mind, brings us up hard against the cross. As it has torn her down, down to the basics, it tears at us, confronts us.
And yet, this is no innocent. She admits her guilt, she accepts the price.
Who among us is not guilty of something?
Who is not deserving of their own cross?
 
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