Main thing I wanted her to know was that I could tell a story. I mean, sure, she could tell a story. And, sure, she did it without trying, just by tugging down her green shirt. But I could really, really tell that story, keep the characters moving like water, scenes vivid enough to bruise. It wasn't fair for her to say, "Rachael, it's been done. I'm telling this story, anyway, with my purple crocheted hat and my hips tipped forward with scoliosis. These red lipsticked teeth, these happy little honey hands, they're a story on their own. It's a good story, moving in its brevity and sweetness. Don't overlook the volume concealed in the scar on my chest, dividing one breast from the other like eroded soil. This story is done. It's a fat contented penguin, deal with it."
But she didn't get it! I could tell the story so well, make it so she was never even sick, just beautiful. She gave me that... look, her pale eyes hard enough to hurt my head.
"Don't be foolish. I am beautiful. Leave the story to me. Your poem is waiting."
Post a Comment