Tuesday, July 05, 2005
There is a name for what I am.
They dance around it, they whisper it in the dark, these voices. They are free to say, they yell, taunting me, and my own mouth is bound, sealed with cotton, thunder, shame.
Here is emptiness, here is weakness, here is fear.
And I know! I am not so tiny. These are things by day which I can ignore, and I do, though they burrow and dig and wait. They sit inside me until night comes, because here I am small, and they have many mouths.
My voice would be feared, should be — but they know I am still powerless to use it. It would unmake me as soon as it would them.
—but—
(I am getting stronger)
There is a name for what I am, but I cannot speak it.
Yet.
Comments
I read this Kelly Link story on the train today, “Vanishing Act”, that made me think of you.
“Hildy knows that Jenny Rose is only holding herself upon the bench by great effort. It is like sitting beside a struck match that waits and refuses to ignite…
“Hildy wants to see the mythical being that she is sure her cousin contains, like a water glass holding a whole ocean.”
Oh, wow, I hadn’t seen your entry yet, and now I have to — and it’s CC-licensed and freely downloadable in every format you’d ask for!
Too neat!
@ 11:08 PM | 2005/07/07
what you are is a very special person
an indivudual who’s spirt insipres others
who’s artistry is held in hig esteem by many
and mostly
you are much loved by many people, like me