Dear Vivienne,
Glorious--strange news... I have met a wide-eyed, silent little slip of a girl. She seems to be telling a sad portrait of a story. I needn't believe it all. I know there is truth even in the most vicious of lies--but I am not as certain she is so aware.
I read her journal. She pressed it to my chest one night. Her eyes told me read it--or burn it--perhaps one right after the other: glimpse enough of the tortured thoughts on the open page, commit snapshots to memory, and then incinerate all but the very last of her words.
I read, for hours, her horror stories. In the morning, I returned it to her. Her eyes were never as green as but in that morning light.
I asked for it again the next night. I had seen her scribbling furiously in the margins. She shook her head--she would not. Perhaps there was finally something she had written that was so personal. Or perhaps this was a new journal, the other cast off in a trunk or a lake or a firebed and such new entries were not for my eyes.
The girl has murals of her dreams up and down her arms.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment