The Raze Game

fire-tornado

The following journal entry was an assignment for my Craft of Writing II class. We were prompted to read entry 23 from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath and continue writing.

“There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears.” And your tears turn to anger, and your anger turns to hate. And you become so bitter, the salt in your veins can’t mask the scowl on your face.

“Who are you?” you ask yourself scornfully as you project into the mirror, “What is this beast you have become, this pestuous varmint falling for every trap set out by man. Why have you given yourself so freely to such a feckless toad?”

You forgot it was a game. You made yourself believe in standards of passion and romance, of kindness and faith. What a witless tart you are. What a biting-at-the-bit believer of fairytales and rubbish.

You forgot about yourself in a long lost battle over who’s the one in charge. You knew it would happen, you said it many times. Even more, you felt it many times. You felt it every time that dagger in your wayside inched its way into your heart with such extreme precision, no surgeon could ever live up to the glory of the one who snatched your livelihood.

Now here you are, torn and beaten in this game called Raze. Not the one that builds you up, gives props to your triumphs, or loves all you’ve come to be. No, that would be too deserving. The game called Raze. The one that beats you down, demolishes your extremities and bulldozes you over like an empty lifeless lot.

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