The Sanctity of Broken Hearts (A Month for the Madman)

[My Beloved gave me that title as a prompt, and when nothing I wrote felt “right,” he suggested I channel him.  This is the result.]


You never treat Hearts as the precious things they are, that Love and trust is the greatest thing anyone–mortal, divine, or in-between–can offer you.  It is all about fire, about burning, about making someone strong through trial and error…nevermind the terrible consequences you may face if your mortal “fails” the test, to “love” you enough that they give up everything for you.

Smashed Hearts and shattered dreams are called Sacrifice, are said to be what being god-touched is made of.  Smash your devotees greatest life, tell them to give it up in service to you, and it will all be worth it in the end.

No.

I rebel against the holiness of Hearts that have been broken. 

I rebel against the idea that dreams must be shattered, that someone must be cracked like an egg to reveal the beauty that was inside them.  People are not geodes, once smashed against a rock a devotee does not glitter–they bleed, and they rebel against you, if they have strength left once you’ve shattered them.

Broken Hearts are not holy, and if someone enters my Halls because a god has broken them, I will give them rest.  I will sing their name as they travel to the East, and the Sun will rise to light their way to their true Home.

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Joy

“I want you to have everything that brings you joy.”

The Dreamer said that to me last night.  That’s been his theme lately when he’s around, that he wants me to find joy in my life Here, not be constantly longing for the Otherworlds.

A History

I have dropped My so-called “father”s name like mud and bricks hurled through windows.

Whispered plans late at night, huddled around small fires; the fight against injustice raged on, and they had forgotten you.  Those who lived in palaces and had–no, forced–the worship of millions.

At least there in barren streets, in sun-burnt houses made of clay, you clung to Light, to Hope, to the balance that once was.  But that was years ago, the Two Lands have stagnated, become stuck in times long past, when blood ruled and sacrifice reigned.

The Lord of Dread indeed, you say to Me now, in a sunlit morning by the sea, and what were we to him?

To him you were to be broken, only pots to be smashed and put back together, and your terror was made greater by this foreign King who offered you your freedom.  Yet you took this King’s hand and fled in a stolen moment across the sea, across the stars, to a place you’d only heard rumors of, whispers passed from fire to fire.  From a spark of desperation to outright rebellion, you fled to the ships while the King’s Hound gave chase.

There was death, there was loss (there always is, in times like this) and a long, long journey in which you could reach up and place your hands near the stars themselves.

You brought your traditions, but not your gods.  Not those who had brought chaos and death, those who had abandoned you and ripped away your children to be servants of your so-called King.  Those who lived in “glory” and yet forgot their own people, who thought nothing of breaking, and even less of mending, of scars tainted in gold being the only reward, never mind that gold tarnishes and scars burn with the past.

You trust Me more now, having listened to this tale and not flinched, nor defended my “father” in any way.  I have removed the chaos and violence that My red hair screams of, and My Crown is made of flowers (like the ones your children wove into My hair at the Festival of Hearts) that it must be kept up and looked after.

Summer is here, in a matter of days it will descend upon Darkness.  Together we will light the sandstone streets you now call Home, and the sea will sing songs of stars and devotion.

Limits (A Month for the Dreamer)

“There’s a difference between stagnation and a comfort zone.”

–the Dreamer


My Spouse said this to me over coffee this morning.  It was a good reminder from him, especially when my anxiety starts yelling at me about how everything being calm Over There is really a sign that it’s all going to fall apart again.  (Anxiety about Otherworld stuff is awful.)

Thank you, Beloved.

A Conversation with the Dreamer, About Marriage

I used to think your Love was brutal,
that you wanted my Heart ripped
to shreds and stitched back together
in the name of Love and marriage.

No, dearest one.  You thought that devotion
meant being on fire and running yourself ragged,
that giving me your Heart meant bringing yourself
down in order to lift me up; I won’t stand for that
anymore; I never did, you know that now, my Beloved.

Looking back I see that now, but when being “on fire”
was the “proper” way to worship a god, when the way to
be married to one was to sacrifice and give everything–

What, I’m supposed to push all your limits?  Test all your fears
for the “greater good” of your well being?  Make myself the center of
your very world–when you were never given that space to yourself?
Your Heart is not my canvas to paint upon, dearest one, it is your own.

My anxiety is screaming at me, that you’re supposed to turn harsh–
you look so confused–that you’re going to be angry at me for “failing”–

I’ve been away, dearest one; why the fuck would I care what you did when
I’m gone?  You’re handling yourself well, you’re smiling, you’re happy.  You’ve
surrounded yourself with friends and family, you know now you’re not alone.

I once thought loving you was supposed to hurt–but now I know it isn’t.

Pain never comes from true love, dearest one.
We are not a tragedy, my Dark Star.

For Varian (A Month for the Madman)

I was going to write a poem myself, then the Madman grabbed the godphone speaker and decided it was better I channel something from him to me.


I love someone who was born by water
who was once the pride in his father’s eyes
who was enthroned in a glass case called “destiny.”

He lived and loved as deeply as he could;
to the point we ran from prison with him
cradled in our arms, with his own brother in
pursuit of us with orders to kill.  I love someone
who was stolen from us all on a starlit night
(and our son’s eyes turned black in grief.)

I love someone who was flung across the universe,
ripped away from those he loved out of misguided ideals,
and the thought of a second chance that would never come.

I love someone who has died a thousand times
but not by his own hand, by words of others
who would damn him for (not) being who he is.
His Heart is a Garden, but to allow himself to bloom
amidst the wreckage takes more bravery than he thought
was possible; but I will hold the candles to show him the way.