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.
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.