03-08-2026, 08:03 AM
... I've found my voice again, finally.
You owe these people nothing.
Yet still, I feel so small.
The memory of when the night fell has no right to haunt you so.
When I look in the mirror, I see through it many things, dreamed and not, real and not.
However long it takes for an image to settle, it fades away just as quickly. They're mercurial things, little ghosts that remain in my sights, little things nobody sees but me.
On the looking glass, in stilled waters, in my lenses, in my tears, the images remain just as fleeing, just as real.
I sense an absence stirring.
Are they real to begin with? They are; I know they are, because so many, like my father, like those helping me, like those who came before me, knew her.
Maybe I think too much of what they see in her, but nobody really thinks much of what I see in me. Perhaps, then, it is why I have two years left.
An unfamiliar voice need not be cause for alarm.
I see, when I peer into the mirror, when I look past the frail ribs marked in my skin, when I ignore the paleness of my lips, when I ignore the birth-mark scar over my chest...
Too many things.
She clutches onto her fear and anger,... a spider. Its limbs are spurred by the beating of its hearts, its shriveled form capable of what is only a veneer of humane nursing.
... a statue. It is large and imposing, standing tall and proud in accomplishment and valor, unbreakable despite the seams running through its marble.
... a hand. It reaches towards the seam in my chest, the place where the nested heart that beats now rests, as if to pluck it from my corpus, as if to strangle it.
... a key. It offers freedom, it offers liberation, it offers temptation beyond what I can imagine. A perspective I'd never considered.
... a weapon. A sword, one meant only for severing binds and hurting others, found in a purpose to protect instead.
... a ring. A promise to the forgotten, that they will be remembered. A promise of love, if not for them, then for their stories.
... a well. Cleansing waters that slosh about in idle rest, willing to do more. Unable to do more, under threat of running dry. Under threat of claw.
... nothing. A presence that shouldn't be. A person that should've never existed. Maybe that's what this name means. Maybe that's all I am.
... a girl. A scared one, awkward in jerking motions with natural shifts of poise and temperament. One unable to sit still, yet finds pain in motion.
... an imitation. A mimicry of what I was meant to be. A mimicry of what came before me. A far cry of one, too; I could never be her.
... a ghost. A grandiose one, standing as spectral as a God, waiting for my every move. I feel suffocated. I feel indebted. What should I do?
I don't know what I should see when I stare into it.
Or if I should transfix my gaze there at all, anymore.
... I am not haunted, but I am dreading facing this.
I shouldn't be afraid anymore. Why can't I stop shaking?
Still, I must face it.
... a statue. It is large and imposing, standing tall and proud in accomplishment and valor, unbreakable despite the seams running through its marble.
... a hand. It reaches towards the seam in my chest, the place where the nested heart that beats now rests, as if to pluck it from my corpus, as if to strangle it.
... a key. It offers freedom, it offers liberation, it offers temptation beyond what I can imagine. A perspective I'd never considered.
... a weapon. A sword, one meant only for severing binds and hurting others, found in a purpose to protect instead.
... a ring. A promise to the forgotten, that they will be remembered. A promise of love, if not for them, then for their stories.
... a well. Cleansing waters that slosh about in idle rest, willing to do more. Unable to do more, under threat of running dry. Under threat of claw.
... nothing. A presence that shouldn't be. A person that should've never existed. Maybe that's what this name means. Maybe that's all I am.
... a girl. A scared one, awkward in jerking motions with natural shifts of poise and temperament. One unable to sit still, yet finds pain in motion.
... an imitation. A mimicry of what I was meant to be. A mimicry of what came before me. A far cry of one, too; I could never be her.
... a ghost. A grandiose one, standing as spectral as a God, waiting for my every move. I feel suffocated. I feel indebted. What should I do?
I don't know what I should see when I stare into it.
Or if I should transfix my gaze there at all, anymore.
... I am not haunted, but I am dreading facing this.
I shouldn't be afraid anymore. Why can't I stop shaking?
Still, I must face it.
feeling more human than what-ever came before,
promising that she is different in all of her care and love.
A peculiar development, and not at all unwelcome.
Still, the joys of living are not just limited to the sensation of happiness.
She is learning, just as I did, and just as we both will.