Ghost
I do not know where he came from. He appeared as if from nothing, behind me, within the space my ears should have been vigilantly guarding. I turned my head, saw him behind the curtain of my hair, and stood quickly in a fright. The flowers I'd held in my lap spilled to the grass, returned. And I stood with my eyes fixed to him, backing away slowly as he reached out with pleading hands.
Naked: this was the first thing I thought. And hairy; the dark hair on his arms and thighs and chest and privates was like a dead forest obscuring the snowy terrain of his pale skin. Bones and knuckles stuck out of him like the hills of the earth; not the soft curves of musculature, but hard points. His skin seemed shrunk around him, drawn up and tight and suffocating. His hands were so empty as they reached to me. Empty, palms up, curled fingers, filled only with want. Empty.
I stepped back again, the voices of my aunts in my ear, scolding for not turning my eyes away from his cinched skin and long bones, from the small and pathetic phallus that hung from him like the tattered remains of a flag. I knew pity and fear in equal parts, backing away -- yes -- but not running. His weakness held and revolted me.
Surely this misery wished another prisoner in its greedy grasp. Surely this desparation was catching as any disease, a sickness of suffering. Behind the black veil of his hair were wanting eyes... empty... wanting help, wanting food, wanting a roof, wanting a woman to hold his hard edges and wash his tight skin and coax the warmth back into that forgotten face. He was dead as any ghost in a story, but habit kept him breathing, stumbling awkwardly across the grass, the movements of his limbs like a childish marionette with strings tugged by a dark fate that vows to plague any who behold the puppeteer.
This was no man, I knew in the pit of my stomach. This was the territory of death, laid claim to, marked, set aside for another time and misfortunes still yet to come. This was loss incarnate, hollow as the spaces between the stars, predictable and sickening as the echoes of the years.
His want alone could snuff my very soul. And still my eyes were drawn to eyes I could not see, the curtain of my hair half-hiding a veiled man, my arms around my chest as his reached, reached, seemed to stretch out until his curled fingers could just grasp my heart and brush its soft matter with his hard knuckles, fingers that clutched a great and mighty nothing, the cold weight that bears down anyone who has given up swimming in the middle of a sea, anyone who has given up. His was the soul of suicides unrealized.
Hush your tongue. You cannot blame me for turning, for running, for leaving the wildflowers to be trampled by his uneven steps. You cannot blame me; it is my burden, and not yours.
Naked: this was the first thing I thought. And hairy; the dark hair on his arms and thighs and chest and privates was like a dead forest obscuring the snowy terrain of his pale skin. Bones and knuckles stuck out of him like the hills of the earth; not the soft curves of musculature, but hard points. His skin seemed shrunk around him, drawn up and tight and suffocating. His hands were so empty as they reached to me. Empty, palms up, curled fingers, filled only with want. Empty.
I stepped back again, the voices of my aunts in my ear, scolding for not turning my eyes away from his cinched skin and long bones, from the small and pathetic phallus that hung from him like the tattered remains of a flag. I knew pity and fear in equal parts, backing away -- yes -- but not running. His weakness held and revolted me.
Surely this misery wished another prisoner in its greedy grasp. Surely this desparation was catching as any disease, a sickness of suffering. Behind the black veil of his hair were wanting eyes... empty... wanting help, wanting food, wanting a roof, wanting a woman to hold his hard edges and wash his tight skin and coax the warmth back into that forgotten face. He was dead as any ghost in a story, but habit kept him breathing, stumbling awkwardly across the grass, the movements of his limbs like a childish marionette with strings tugged by a dark fate that vows to plague any who behold the puppeteer.
This was no man, I knew in the pit of my stomach. This was the territory of death, laid claim to, marked, set aside for another time and misfortunes still yet to come. This was loss incarnate, hollow as the spaces between the stars, predictable and sickening as the echoes of the years.
His want alone could snuff my very soul. And still my eyes were drawn to eyes I could not see, the curtain of my hair half-hiding a veiled man, my arms around my chest as his reached, reached, seemed to stretch out until his curled fingers could just grasp my heart and brush its soft matter with his hard knuckles, fingers that clutched a great and mighty nothing, the cold weight that bears down anyone who has given up swimming in the middle of a sea, anyone who has given up. His was the soul of suicides unrealized.
Hush your tongue. You cannot blame me for turning, for running, for leaving the wildflowers to be trampled by his uneven steps. You cannot blame me; it is my burden, and not yours.
posted by Ghostwind | 1:45 AM
1 Comments:
Thank you so much...no one else can write like you. No one. I WILL own books by you some day.
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