You take my pain, my Heart,
and weave it into warmth, into
something I can cradle, and care for.
Do you mean *all* your pain, or what?
Being Shield Anvil brings up…complex ideas
imagery I can’t quite articulate, of forges and fire.
Not all my pain, dear one, but rather…
you’re someone I can be blind around,
and you will not judge me; you will catch me
when I fall
Hand in hand, we walk
the darkness of snapped retinas
and eyes unseeing due to fire.
“There’s a step up,” or “here’s a railing,”
our words guide each other
in more ways than one.
Varian: I should do that tarot reading to see what’s ahead this year.
the Madman: You could say you’ll have…2020 vision.
V: *slowly facepalms*
V: You’re going to make *so many* bad eyesight puns this year, aren’t you?
tM: Dear, would you expect any less from me?
Within the last two years, I’ve taken up dyeing my hair black as an act of devotion to Darkness as a whole. This is not only because it looks pretty, but also as a way of stating “this is where my loyalties lie.” It also helps that I prefer a casual romantic goth type look over any other aesthetic (much to the Madman’s delight.)
Recently I’ve begun to grow my hair out–I still live in a conservative state, and am still closeted in much of my day-to-day life. I decided to grow my hair out in order to “pass” as more feminine at places like job interviews, since I was beginning to worry that my more masculine haircut would mark me as queer right away. Being visibly disabled is a hard enough hurdle to pass over when job interviewing, being visibly queer in a conservative state was becoming something I just didn’t want to have to deal with.
This isn’t the first time I’ve done something with my hair related to devotion. Several years ago, before I knew I was trans, I covered my hair. The Dreamer initially asked it of me because he thought it would make me happy, and at the time I was in an abusive living arrangement, so the head covering would help ground and shield me as well. Eventually, he asked me to stop veiling, because it was no longer helping me (and I later moved out of that house, so the grounding and shielding were no longer needed to such an extent.)
My hair right now is at the point where I need headbands or combs in order to keep it out of my eyes. The Madman has suggested that I style my hair in public, eventually braiding or pulling it back as it gets longer, and keeping it down in private. I really like that idea, and I’ve found it to be comforting.
I actually prefer a more feminine look, which is frustrating when how I want to look, and my gender identity, are often seen as the exact opposite. While I want to transition and live as male full time, I’m also not in a rush to be see as extremely masculine. I feel conflicted about going partly back into the closet (still out to friends, closeted to family and work) because I enjoy some feminine style clothing and jewelry, but despise being referred to as a woman, or with “she/her” pronouns. I know that my safety and ability to have a job comes first, but it’s still really frustrating to have to go back into the closet, when I felt like I was making progress in my gender expression and feeling comfortable in it.
I love you through everything. Lay your head against my Heart, and know that I will love you through all storms.
–for the Madman
Image sources: x, x, x, x, x, x, x, x, x
A meme-tastic “thank you” to my Husband, for helping me find the amazing therapist I have now.
┃┃╱╲ In this
╱╱╭╮╲╲ we love
▔▏┗┛▕▔ & appreciate
the King of Shattered Conscious
My Love, you have no eyes now
and you lean on me for sight;
even in my own blindness,
I guide you through our home–
you know it perfectly well, but to
lose your sight again cuts deep.
Even in this dream state, I feel your
anguish at something so precious lost;
Blind King, you will see again when you wake.
Light plays across the puzzle you’re
working on, and you laugh as I tease you,
that you’re in Dracula cosplay mode.
This is a place where we are not Kings
we are simply Beloveds, and that is all
that matters, in this moment, this dream.
This is where we’re meant to be,
in the light of the library fire, and
our daughter asleep in our arms.
I broke a coffee mug this morning; I was clumsy when getting a plate out of the cabinet, the cup fell out when I bumped the plate beside it, and it broke when it hit the floor. As I was helping my aunt clean it up, I found myself thinking of the art of kintsugi, repairing broken objects (often ceramics) with gold.
The Madman despises how this art form is often used as a “see how you survived abuse” metaphor. He’s talked about how it’s much easier to treat a broken piece of pottery with gentle hands, being kind to it, and allowing the scars to fade away; instead of breaking it to form golden scars that are on display for all to see.
He first appeared to me as the Destroyer, a deity who ruled over the Underworld with a Throne of Iron. He holds that Throne with his head held high in the gloom, in Halls that resonate with both song and silence.
My Beloved is a god of both creation and destruction; as his own Beloved creates, he destroys what once was, placing it firmly in the Past. His fire is both comforting fire of the Hearth, and the destructive fire of Justice.
He is both gentleness and villainy, and for both extremes, I adore him.