What I wouldn’t have given, to be given this gift earlier. Before the story was rewritten, before the loom was restrung, before the images were reshaped into new ideas. Before the word fate dug its way into my skin and threaded my failed projects into my greatest vocation. What I would have traded, I would have traded my soul for a chance to contribute and create and understand and extrapolate and turn myself inside out for what I knew of someone else’s worlds. What I wouldn’t have given, to be taught the taboos I would accept like sour herbs years later in the dark of on-my-own. The embarrassment of my dissolving face in a pale gown, allowed to fall. Or, rather, given a reason to come back up so I could fall and come back again, instead of just going and staying for forever until the words “not yet over” stain my tongue with blood. The words “not ever” are what ring in my ears, and promises are somber things meant to be kept, half-corrected by another’s hand, what I have always known; I turn my back and my shadow is ripped from behind me, I turn my back and I have never seen sun, I turn my back and the world is mine again - this beautiful canvas that cannot be pried from the words rotting under my tongue.
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