Scar
You walked neatly in line through the halls, the torrent of your curls
plaited to a drizzle down your back. And by that measure, you were
good and perfect. You learned to spell precipitation and recited the
letters in melody. When your hand slit open on the metal edge of a
bulletin board, you kept it to yourself, embarrassed by your ordinary
humanness dripping onto the library carpet. Your body was made of
light and spirit. You weren’t supposed to bleed. And here is another
secret: every night, you ran from the shadows seeping in through the
keyhole. Counted and recounted the four boundaries of the world
that opened and closed for you—windows, walls, pages, doorways.
And by that measure, nothing bad would happen. The floor-length
mirror hung like a waterfall, silvery with moonlight, and thundered
with the threat of drowning. It was exhausting being good. Your
hand still bears the scar, a thin white wave cresting.
plaited to a drizzle down your back. And by that measure, you were
good and perfect. You learned to spell precipitation and recited the
letters in melody. When your hand slit open on the metal edge of a
bulletin board, you kept it to yourself, embarrassed by your ordinary
humanness dripping onto the library carpet. Your body was made of
light and spirit. You weren’t supposed to bleed. And here is another
secret: every night, you ran from the shadows seeping in through the
keyhole. Counted and recounted the four boundaries of the world
that opened and closed for you—windows, walls, pages, doorways.
And by that measure, nothing bad would happen. The floor-length
mirror hung like a waterfall, silvery with moonlight, and thundered
with the threat of drowning. It was exhausting being good. Your
hand still bears the scar, a thin white wave cresting.
