I run, my spine is a rose stalk.
I straddle metaphors pickily, this is how I rise. But he doesn’t like the lines.
Look, - I say, - they are not as poor as you think of them. To me they are rich enough, precise too. Word is a vertebra, this is how I survive, this is how I stand up - I have twenty two. Literary remedies for unrepairable bodily harm. Heaven and garden and sea,
- I write to him automatically with courage and unlimited trust. I write to him:
if you don’t give me a bunch of roses, I will get you some. So that you can enjoy their scent.
Give me roses, give me give me roses, celebrate my femininity with roses!
Word is a vertebra, word is a bone and a stone, word is everything that is firm, whether it is wood or mineral, word is a thief, word is a gardener’s son. She taught me that all that is material is energy too, and I, having believed her, dissipated into nowhere as atmosphere became as eliminating as acid, and their smiles, and their spoken thoughts.
Love has not saved me, - I laughed. God has not saved me.
Men never give me flowers, but this is my fault, I am one of them, one of these men. I learnt to be like them by copying, by choice. My behavior, my eyes.