Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part
Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part
There's a corner under your bed where all the dust bunnies have gathered. I snicker, bending down and putting my head as far in as I can, trying to poke fingers through their lair. At these games, I am loud. I want you to hear me playing with nonsense and children's toys. I have a perfectly pretty my little pony collection in an old shoe box you saved for me. Gently, you removed the wrapping and helped me pick up the ponies, slip them into sleeping moves. Now their plastic tummies heave like cute kittens on our old bed at mom's place. I steal your comb to brush the kitties, they love it.
I would leave this house, this road, this safe place of nothing, where all my dreams have to be silently protected...just so I can always be with you. But I make you promise me this. I do not promise. This girl is unconditional. Isabelle is full of ease.
You get the blame for our arrogance, they say. You get the blame for my pretty dresses, they say. You get the blame for my flowing hair that is vicariously complimented by old ladies at bus stops, they say. They say and say, and no words ever escape their silly little mouths. I do not point fingers and I do not make fun, but I laugh warmly, without prudence. You get the blame for taking whatever blame there is for me.
I would so much love to, really love to, and leave this place of sad rot and memories. With you.
Pouncing like a kitten, moving about like a cat on the prowl, giggling and fancying myself funny. Your smile is comical, but no worse than my performance, you tell me. I listen past your words, past the streetlights, the cars, and the forest that sings with the wind. I listen with recognition burning in my eyes, a fire without ashes, no embers. I turn your heart so very soft.
They say it's terrible. They say we're not to be. They say we shouldn't be so open.
But I am not. I own neither castles nor ivory towers. I own no knights, guards or maids. There is a simple, pink dress, waiting for me by your hands, held just low, just high enough. And there is so much they can never ever be allowed to know; your fingers, careful about me, your lips, falling to my embrace, and your stoic gaze, faltering in my hands. You have hid me for so long, now I am only yours. There is room beneath your bed, a corner where dust bunnies keep late night tea parties. I check on them every now and then, putting my fingers up to their dreams. Feeling the touch of the world.
They do not know; about the girl who had the most loving walls to keep her from harm. Where she would sit still against windows whispering; let it rain. They knew nothing of her protector and her kitten ways. Her name was Isabelle.
Forward to "turning fluid, oily and tar black, seeping through all the cracks" 4. story-part