Prickled Bombs in Glass Houses


“When I throw a cactus at another with my bare hands, we both get hurt.”

I don’t recall who wrote this, but every day it seems the words run through my head in a ticker tape.

This morning, the words are blurred and smeared.  I cried hard this morning.  Today, I wish I’d never dropped the restraining order.  Today, I’m a tense ball of livid unreasonable thoughts.  For in my hands, is a toxic cactus thrown from the Desert of the Past… unflowering, unpleasant, unappetizing… so aged that it petrified to rock hardness.

He knows I fell in love with someone.  He does not want this person around.  He does not share or play well with others.   He plays dirty, and meanly.

I have just been ignoring him as much as possible.  It’s healthy for me.  I’ve been looking the other way.  Ignorance has been bliss.  I’ve been in bliss, for two weeks.  I cannot stoop to the level of scum.  It is beneath me.

Now, I’m gripping the cactus so terribly hard, that the blood runs between my fingers.  He broke a wall in my Glass House of Safety.   As I stare through the shards, I want to hurl the prickly bomb back at him.  I want him to hurt.  Nailing him to a wall is too good for him.  He is diseased and everything he touches, becomes sick.

He will not disease me.. not again.  Not ever.

But my child stand between us.  The cactus will nick her as I throw it back at him.   The glass will hurt her.  I will not throw it back.

I will not.  But I must let go of the cactus.

For now, though, it remains in my hands, painfully, until I loosen my grip.   And then I will bury it, far away from my House. 

Let go and let God, Chris.

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