The guanyin cries please touch me not break me

Tonight I can declare with this my voice of experience that it is sad being the guanyin, for as you may slightly be aware of, I have been sitting it out and containing myself, at times unsuccessfully, with the old man, I have endured many years and yes I am still here, still alive, knowing that I have trawled the bottom of the pit, my tongue black with filth and my teeth red with blood, a guanyin by destiny, by grief, you see this old man has managed to cut and it hurts to keep trying to run away, and he has broken my face quite a number of times and consequently there is something a bit wrong with me, a very strange feeling in the head, breathing isn’t easy, writing is getting more difficult, thinking is such an ordeal and in the evenings I am not even sure if I am awake or asleep and dreaming, and last night the crying began again because my cunt hurts, oh god it hurts badly, and there were these things poking, molesting me, hard things, I don’t know if they are sticks or fists or fingers but I’m terrified of them, they just kept poking at me until I hurt and cry, until my cunt hurt so much that my legs feel numb, then in the morning I can just about make breakfast, but by noon my mind leaves again, and it is unsettling because I can see it, I can feel it, I can hear the chatty voices whenever my mind begins to walk away, but how glorious each time my mind returns, like a prodigal daughter, now, now, let me tell you how the guanyin goes about it, when the old man bangs his fist on my face I know that it is nothing personal, yes of course my face breaks after a while but the old fellow is more broken and so I should be more considerate, and it’s not even as if I can’t do something about it, I let him bang for a while until he is tired, then I can take his hand and put it on my breasts, but it will not happen overnight or in the next several years because his hand is just too stiff and heavy and insensitive, a hand for banging faces, but I must guide his hand, his fingers, to help him learn, to feel that my body is not just bones that can be cracked, but above the bone is flesh and upon it is skin, so I use my hand to guide one of his fingers, it is so heavy that it hurts but I shouldn’t mind, I must be patient, to lead his fingers upon the skin and count with him the stars in my breasts, feel their shapes, ponder their sizes, their constellations, trace where they are rooted and follow their paths to my sides, armpits and in the spaces between the ribs, deep behind the nipples, and I ask, always carefully, if he could feel, and he answers not a yes but a kind of un-hum, hum or hmm, and often such lessons are forgotten and the cycle begins again, please touch me not break me, and so I hope you can understand why I am rather sad, why I flinch, why I look so famished, so gangly, why I am difficult, confused, and why after so long I feel lonely, I miss a bit of conversation that threatens not to break my face, yet you left me after you’ve had your fun, which isn’t nice, but — for now I carry on, guanyin de fuckto, it is nothing personal.

Fatima Lasay, San Roque
Thursday, September 4, 2014

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