I can barely look at you, the girl told the mirror. I can barely
taste your tears, place my fingers upon your eyelids and press,
press, press until your heart pops. You can barely resist, moving
your lips to the shape of my name, those gentle letters. We can
barely fold in at the seam, untying the knots and separate. Who will
tell me what we are and why we feel like two, two of one? And you
spoke to me, yesterday, the day before and the day before the day
before. And you said the world was less than pity, more than
cowardice. I asked if we were splitting by the seam,
but you said we were connecting, coming into.
Against the mirror, I breathe the words by hazy motion, a scarred upper lip stinging the surface.
Your skin is rough, hard to the touch, almost scaly. But not like a
fish, never cold nor slippery. Your scales breathe fire, move like
diligent tiny strings under my finger tips. I can smell the blood, the taste of iron. My heart skips
beats to the shifting gaze of your eyes, set deeper. We are standing
against each other, on the tip of the sharpest edge, and my hands are
on the ornate band of this old mirror, right here in the corridor of
my father's home. Our father, your coarse whispers betraying
my voice, lacing yourself on top of me, building a land of fangs on
my shoulders, attaching dreams and nightmares to my shoulder blades.
To think I might not find my way back home, to think I might lose
you, to think I have always lost myself..and I turn again. He has
taught us how to turn and change. Chameleon toes, dancing across the
cold floor like the ballerina I dreamt of becoming at six. I dance,
dance and spin within the embrace of your arms.
Late at night in a room that once belonged to somebody else, with
my shoes neatly stacked onto the shelf and my suitcases in the
corner, we are sitting on the couch. In this crooked little space I
sleep and you wake. The glass locker, shelves arranged all the way,
a little postcard with green glitter and and a big red dragon, all friendly looking. Just across my
desk, a small mirror with green stones. While I still cannot sleep,
you cannot wait for me to begin.
Where do we begin now? Before I can say that I'm scared, you catch
my heart and look me in the eyes. Not many little girls ever wake to
a dragon's alluring gaze, but you simply raise
your gritty face and smile at me as to say; you are that little
girl. I will be the dragon.
Long ago, I gave you a name, but I've forgotten. And everybody
else has forgotten about you, forgotten about everything you did for
me. They haven't paid you the slightest of notion, never noticed your
soft steps across the years of
memories. Yet, you were everywhere. As you are today, and tomorrow,
and the day after tomorrow.
You raise your face again, all up to mine. The colours of the
ocean, the green moss, and the silver-grey snow right before the
dark. Your eyes shine and speak to me.
Sing me another song, Isabelle.
Back to "stranger with no intentions" 1. story-part
Back to "the difference has blurred" 2. story-part
Back to "from Isabelle to you" 3. story-part
Back to "turning fluid, oily and tar black,
seeping through all the cracks" 4. story-part
Back to the interlude; take your stormy weather along
Back to "painting stars that have not come to be" 5. story-part
Back to "the dreams that should have died" 6. story-part
Forward to "a dream you did not have" 8. story-part