Hidden Genesis Lum Chi
In one famous tale, I am sculpted out of sand: tan, crumbled, and gritty. An anomaly from the green in the garden. In another, I am sculpted from his ribs, ivory and firm. In each narrative, I am described as beautiful. Slim as the stems of the plants with large eyes as round as the rocks that marinate within the river pits. The icy paleness of my skin does the most to emphasize my beauty. I am meant to be his partner. The air reminds me every time I sip it. An exchange, or rather a disclosure of purpose. My only. It is because of him that I first believed a gaze solely emanated love. I continue believing it, if not more, when he let his fingers sift through the golds of my hair or took pride in the deep blue of my eyes mirroring his. In the first tale, he laid on top of me. There should’ve been warmth in my belly, in my chest and in the tips of my fingers. Dissatisfaction penetrated all instead. An anomaly. I told him no. The love in his gaze shriveled, 19
