She is covered in green and yellow patches, bruised from the weight of words. They
emerge in fragments and phrases and cover her body. When they find their way to the
surface, you witness affliction in action. Every sentence leaves your mouth and finds
its way under her skin. Standing in the middle of wooden bookcases and those waiting
for a spectacle, she reveals words that travel the length of her arm from underneath
frilly wrist ruffles. As you read aloud to no one in particular, she becomes silent.
You motion for her to stand closer. She says the word private and shoots you a look. You distribute space through the opening in her mind and are
slow when it comes to moments. She is contaminated from asymmetrical arias that float
from your mouth and linger in her throat. She says it is not appropriate to sing because
she does not want your soft middle. "Here it is on a platter!" you holler, teetering
on the edge of dispute, waiting for thoughts that feel made up. Put another way. Promises,
promises.
She itches at the epidermis, covered in suffering, waiting for relief. You ask her
for light and wisdom and say whatever you say. How you feel doesn't matter because
illness is not mercury weighing you down in a boat. While she fidgets, you bend over
backward, removing words from her legs. You rearrange iterations on the back of her
hands, making language portraits, just for her. She says it does not change limits,
nor verity, but you know time and the universe. She checks her body for contractions
and peels off apostrophes. All you see is caution. You are redacting articles every
single second. She argues about proximity, claiming ownership to various parts of
happenstance. As you edit the story, old versions remain visible on her body, causing
blurriness and a rash.
You carry a star and the warmth of a bath to her. If hyphens surround her, in both
French and Hebrew, she will allow for partial views from lukewarm tub water. Words
flash and disappear on her skin, so you do nothing for her. When you attempt additions,
they fill her heart, against her will. She hears a hollow sound where echoes result
from arrhythmia, where you are both siamese.
