Tuesday, October 20, 2009

new prose poem.

Before she was old enough to write, she taught herself to draw stars. Before she could discern, she drew houses on the backs of compact discs in permanent marker. Connecting the squares to the triangles, she taught herself the meaning of home. Before she could marry, she fell in love with her own script and practiced it nightly, stringing together phrases that just looked nice together. She found her mates in dusty books and carved their names into her palms with ink. Through ink, she taught herself honesty and became a mute. Through the window, she memorized the world. Then they took away her hands. And she became the grass.

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