It begins as a whisper, ghosting its way across my knuckles and settling momentarily to tantalise the soft pads of my fingertips. write. The itch worms itself in between creases on my thumprint. write. But I cannot, and I will not. It costs too much. Can no one see that I am empty of words? Can no one see how it pains me to see them used so carelessly? I cannot use what has already been so ruthlessly exploited. I cannot cultivate a war-torn land. I cannot heal when I am myself unfixed. And so the insistent, chattering wiggle in my fingers dulls to a mournful ache: please, it begs. But I am harder now, colder and more brittle than before. No, I reply, and the singing dims to a soft keen.
It comes as a wave, now--gathering, draining, pulling all attention and energy to it before launching towards my weakened resolve: write! it cries out. you've done so before, why do you reject what once was a friend? why will you not take up your pen? when did a coward take the soul of you and cheapen it? But I cannot! and I shout it to the star-shattered heavens, I cannot write! I have lost something, and it cannot be found. I have lost the words, and they will not come. I have hurt them, and they remain hidden from me; their roughened edges gleam with fearful tears and silence. I turn my sorrowed gaze on the hands which so softly shake beneath my wistful scrutinty. but we perish, they cry, and I nod, solemn and suddenly empty--I know.
It deepens into a fire, bright golden strands of want flickering up my arms in a glorious burn of sunset. It cannot speak anymore, silent in its glorious blaze, but it scorches my soul with its need. Tendrils drift closer in accusation, and I am forced to turn my gaze from their consuming pleas. No. Quieter, more softly, but no less firm.
It sinks into my skin as the very night, stars kissing each freckle and settling into the grooves of every knuckle and crease. It does not speak. It does not beg. It clings, and somehow this angers me more than the accusations and demands. Go away, I demand, malevolence colouring every attempt to flick it from my skin. You're not wanted. Find someone else to toy with. But still it lingers, nestling all the more snugly into the curves of my fingerprints. I almost wish it would speak now, because then this doubt would not linger, this small seed of wonderment--what if?
No! I shout, and I flee, and run as fast as I have ever run. You cannot make me!
It finds me in my bed, comfortable with pillows and toasted shades of yellow and brown. It perches on the edge of the bed and I watch it, wary. And yet, it does not lunge towards my bare feet poking out from the blanket, nor slink towards my unguarded elbow. I give it a warning frown and return to my book, gaze still flickering back every now and again.
It was an accident. It was trickery. But I fell for it--no, dived for it with every fibre of my being when I saw that small whisper tumble--startled!--off the edge of the bed: No!I cried out, and leapt from the top of the bed to catch, to hold, to save, to cradle this small fragile thing in my arms as we both crash to the floor in a bloody bruised tangle. I wait a moment, scarcely daring amid my frightened gasps to believe what I have done, what I have admitted. Carefully, gently, I pull my arms away from my body, scarcely daring to hope or fear or feel anything at all--
oh! I murmer, as it blinks up at me with a beautific warmth, contentment radiating from every cherished pore of its needy self. Please, comes the faintest breeze, soft, faint, and filled with hope. And something breaks in me which was once broken before, a long time ago. And I swallow hard.
And I nod shakily.
And I take up my pen, and write.
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