October 17, 2017

this is not everything she has to say

The table is covered in scraps, and the caps to all the glue are missing, 
and there, in the center of the maelstrom, there is a girl
who didn't intend to sit down but did, and she's turning the pages of the small book
she's convinced out a single sheet of paper: "My Dog."
The narrative opens with careful cursive and a pencil sketch of her beloved.
And I look and I nod and offer my amazement, because it IS amazing,
one being who adores another being this much, and I know this is not everything
she has to say, that between the folds, a girl can tuck a catalog of pain so private
it may never reach the surface, never get its own proud illustration, and this might be
the story she'll always carry, unwritten, yet inked deep enough to bruise her forever.