“There is something wrong with you, it is plain to see,” it said, forthrightly.
She put her hand to her brow, as if to swoon, and sighed: “What do you think it might be? The color of my dress or the blood as it runs from my eyes? Do not answer, you do not know, and any reply shall purely be to hurt me further.”
She tore from her mind the impulse, the craving, the unquenchable desire, and she tiptoed mincingly to the edge of her willingness, glancing timidly over the rim into the depths of her forsakenness, the blackness of it a mirror, and she distorted within its retort, it denying her suggestion…
“You will not find comfort in it; tenderness shall remain elusive. The ache you feel now will grow into an immensity profound: it will suffocate you, and you will find yourself drowned in the ostracism, yourself tearing yourself from the world yet again. How many lessons have you not learnt and yet you desire to be retaught rottenness afresh? How shall this time be any different than the rest? Do you require renewed proof of your spurn? A mark, a token?”
She stared into her stain and drained into the safety of her confinement, the window sealed shut and the curtain drawn with the ink of a pen depleted: an anchor severed from its charge. There was a stillness which overcame her as she imagined herself aloft, above it all, without need for any of it, a security ensured, and so she pulled paint from pot until she was firmly affixed into a corner, it all radiating from her purpose… As if one could ever understand that which had been stroked or spoke.
“I made a mistake,” she said, laying her brush at her side and propping her head into the palm of her newly-freed hand, her eyes resting on her heart as it moved within her, her fingers tapping a quiet message into a temple, it soundlessly resounding within a mind now dried. “I declared it to be punitive with precision, when it is broadly declarative, instead. It comes like a typhoon, a swell of ferocious emotion, itself washing over everything, angry and cruel. It knows nothing of preciseness, of particular crevasses into which it might flow. No, it is crude and overwhelming, without the courtesy of particular points, it envelops everything into its darkness, leaving me gasping and exhausted entirely, as if every excuse for merely living—for being, at all—has been reduced to a cinder, and then under boot I am finally reduced to a forgotten thing, as if none of this had reason for a moment, as if all of it was little more a uselessness prolonged.”
She lifted her eyes to the ceiling of her cell and blew kisses to these minuscule lights as they swirled around her, each harboring a clue towards solution, each a friend from afar and ever far from reach, and a tear formed in a corner and fell to the floor, where she remained completely, despite herself, torn into thirds, an argument, a victor, another day having departed without demarcation or difference: although is that truly the case?