Trust Me Meeah Williams
My flesh is not like other people's flesh; it crawls off my bones at
every opportunity. It seeks out dark corners, it lies heaped under the bed
like an old mohair sweater gone out at the elbows. At night, waking chilled
and lonely, I get out of bed and seek out my flesh. I know all its favorite
hiding places—up in the attic draped over granny's old rocker, down in the
basement behind the oil furnace, hanging almost incognito beside the
windbreaker left behind by one old boyfriend or other. I coax it out from
behind the refrigerator with all the sweet endearments at my disposal, all
the poetry still in me, a square of chocolate, the promise of a kiss, and,
eventually, it comes, tentatively, cowering, almost shivering—it
breaks my heart to see how it comes, like a shy child fearing a beating but
needing my structure, my support, my hard implacable love—it comes at last,
albeit hesitantly, second-guessing itself, into my skeletal embrace.
Meeah Williams is a writer and graphic artist from Seattle. She's had work in X-R-A-Y, Gone Lawn,
Soft Cartel and others.
Read her postcard.
|
