[dahy-muhnds]: Regarding the song’s message, Rihanna told MTV News: “I think a lot of people are afraid of being happy because of what others might think of it, They’re afraid to embrace that and embrace themselves and love themselves and do what they love and do what makes them happy. My story is definitely going to be a happily ever after, no matter what.”

It never rains in the desert, and one of those few times when it does, the water turns into a river washing the streets with the force of a tidal wave.

She remembers the weather. How she used to hide out on the back porch underneath a table. Having songs in her head and dreaming about times far away and out of her reach.

A human hand.

Someone to hold her.

It had been so long since she felt that she forgot what it was like.

Under that table was the place she would go instead.

Drop. Drop. Drop.

Watching the water cascade into the swimming pool looking like tiny fish coming up for air in some lake in the Forrest.

She used to dream she was adopted. That her biological mother was poet Anne Sexton and that she was too sick to take care of her.

Except she died two years before she was born.

Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,

…to empty my breath from its bad prison”,

She asphyxiated herself in her garage and died of carbon monoxide.

Reading about her and her obsession with death would lead her to think about the same thing.

Dreaming of that vodka she drank and that red lipstick around her cigarettes in the ashtray on the living room table.

She opened the mail one day and got some bad news. She waited to run away from it all, but she was ten points to low on her college entrance exams.

She went for that stash she had hidden behind her bed and took the pills she had been saving from behind her bed.

Along with some vodka to wash it down, she laid down on her bed and waited.

Not feeling fear or regret, but an odd feeling of peace.

That is until she had to go to the bathroom.

Then she was disappointed.

She failed.

Not enough points on the suicide entrance exams either.

She was busy throwing up when the yelling came from the master bedroom.

“Be quiet! You are making too much noise!” the voice yelled.

No “are you ok?” or “What happened?” “What did you do? Do you need help?”.

Instead, she threw up quieter so she would not disturb anyone.

She went to her bedroom with her head sunk low and felt like a failure.

Her survival instinct won.

She went to bed with tears in her eyes. The next day she went to school she did like she always did.

Never said a word to anyone.

She would walk through the side door of the house she would hide in under the table on the back porch in the rain.

The countertop was filled with dirty dishes that had not been washed in a week. (She swore to herself when she moved out she would wash up right after she ate or have a dishwasher)

“Take a rag and put bleach and soap in the water” she was told when the pile got to be too big. Now looking in retrospect putting chemicals that make you sick on things you eat food with is perhaps not a great idea.

She would walk by the pile of dishes and look down at the floor.

White tiles with little indentations in them to create some design. They were black because no one had washed them in years. They were so black that they looked like they were there on purpose.

Past the living room, no one sat in. Blinds down. Dark. Looking like a cave.

On the wall by the hallway stod the clown picture that her insane (literally) uncle had in his wall as a child.

Below was the table where her father would make her brother go through the ritual of discipline.

“Give me the brush.” he would say as her little brother would come to him with the thick polished thick wooden brush.

“Put your hands on the table.” He would say.

She would stand in the background hidden, watching his body jerk forward and the tears beginning to stream down his little cheeks.

“Go bury it son” (burying it going put his face in a pillow in his room so no one would hear his tears) he would say to him as he ran to the hall holding his ass and having tears running down the hall.

She would hide and feel the relief it was not her this time.

Not the hitting, but the yelling.

Constant yelling at her.

For hours.

He would brag to others how hitting didn’t work on her, but if he yelled at her she would “completely lose it”.

Over stupid shit, a normal parent would not react over. Like not cleaning the pile of dishes that had sat there for a week, or her room matching the chaos in the house.

She didn’t want to clean the pool anymore. She found a frog in the leaf catcher and her father took it up by the leg and waved it in her face and it scared her.

That was not the only thing that scared her that they would laugh at. Her fear of snails would lead to fake snails getting put in her bed, or letting run loose on the kitchen counter away from the dishes.

All at the expense of her fears.

When they were not yelling or hitting they were hold up in their bedroom. The sound of pipes banging on ashtrays and the smell of marijuana would feel the hallway.

They ate in there (They stopped eating dinner in the same room a long time ago). They slept in there. They even had a refrigerator in there so they did not need to leave the room all night.

Oh, the drugs! The times the family would go out for dinner.

“Do not eat anything all day, we are going to the all you can eat buffet” where everyone would drink water (if you wanted something else you had to pay for it).

Their eyes red and they were thinking they were “normal” but they would look like they had just been in a boxing match.

Little did she know they were taking amphetamines at the time as well.

“No wonder he was so thin…” she would think to herself as she found out.

There was always the threats of her going back to her mother.

“I want to go live with my mother!” she would yell back during one of their fights.

“Go ahead!” he would yell back.

Then she realized her mother did not want her so she had no place to go.

He mother never wanter her. And that was the truth.

So wishing that a poet that died two years before she was born by turning her car on in the family garage was a normal thing in her world.

As she would lie there on her bed that night before she went to school the next morning she thought about how she could try again.

For a long time, she used to say: “I am a failure because I never succeeded in killing myself.”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s