In Pain and in Gratitude
The painted glass between us doesn’t seem to fit her right. The pointy tail and pitchfork don’t match her soft eyes. It’s fundamentally wrong, but I believed it for a time.
She punches a small hole and the image cracks. The carefully painted false lines that show her to be harsh crack as well. We put our hands against the surfaces of our opposing sides and press in. The whole edifice shatters.
She is soft and gentle; not at all the difficult creature she had been painted. I touch her hair and her cheek. Electric pain shoots through my fingertips.
Stepping forward, she touches my arm. Newly-healed scars, and some still tender, criss-cross my skin. She traces them with her finger before drawing her own sleeve back. We’re mirror images, but hers: still red.
I kiss her eyes and scales fall from them. She blinks and her pupils waver. The light is harsh, but my words are kind.
She shows me where it hurts. A jab here, a purple haze there. Each injury wakes an old one in me and I show her how she will look with time and healing. I feel sick and relieved.
I take out my bottled words and pull the cork. Coloured tendrils of toxic, healing truth drift and scatter. I hold the bottle as she takes it to her lips. She closes her eyes and swallows, then gags and bends double. It seems like she’s dying; the liquid catches at her throat and her eyes water but she still drinks. I hold her and soothe her against the violence of the drink, but I can’t take it from her mouth. She’s holding tightly. It’s her medicine. She finishes and gasps for air.
She cries. I cry.
She rests her hand against my chest and sinks her fingers in, around my heart. It’s cracked, but functional. It matches hers. Her touch is a panacea.
We hold each other for hours in the harsh light and amongst the shards of painted glass. But we are safer and happier now; we are sisters in pain and in gratitude.
She punches a small hole and the image cracks. The carefully painted false lines that show her to be harsh crack as well. We put our hands against the surfaces of our opposing sides and press in. The whole edifice shatters.
She is soft and gentle; not at all the difficult creature she had been painted. I touch her hair and her cheek. Electric pain shoots through my fingertips.
Stepping forward, she touches my arm. Newly-healed scars, and some still tender, criss-cross my skin. She traces them with her finger before drawing her own sleeve back. We’re mirror images, but hers: still red.
I kiss her eyes and scales fall from them. She blinks and her pupils waver. The light is harsh, but my words are kind.
She shows me where it hurts. A jab here, a purple haze there. Each injury wakes an old one in me and I show her how she will look with time and healing. I feel sick and relieved.
I take out my bottled words and pull the cork. Coloured tendrils of toxic, healing truth drift and scatter. I hold the bottle as she takes it to her lips. She closes her eyes and swallows, then gags and bends double. It seems like she’s dying; the liquid catches at her throat and her eyes water but she still drinks. I hold her and soothe her against the violence of the drink, but I can’t take it from her mouth. She’s holding tightly. It’s her medicine. She finishes and gasps for air.
She cries. I cry.
She rests her hand against my chest and sinks her fingers in, around my heart. It’s cracked, but functional. It matches hers. Her touch is a panacea.
We hold each other for hours in the harsh light and amongst the shards of painted glass. But we are safer and happier now; we are sisters in pain and in gratitude.
posted by Anonymous | 2:46 am
