In her weakest moments, she does not dare reveal how hope lays a noose about her throat, and squeezes—unforgiving, unwanted, metal blistered on the tongue—with the thought she may belong; may be worthy, for all her faults; may be anything more than what she dreads and yearns for—
(A girl seen for her strength, a sister able to stand on her own two legs, a daughter (again again never again)—
A homestead, crawling free on shaken limbs.)
And that hope feels like a battered hand wrapped in linen, bloodied; like a heart beat-beating, beat-beating ugly drums in her chest.
A fire, blue-glittered and bruising—
Falling.
He writes letters to her: dagger-sharp swipes of quilled pens, elegant; juniper-chill of neat gin, stirred to an inken hand.
We cannot claim to know the horizons from these vantage points below — cannot force ourselves to grow wings, when they were already clipped from us. But so are our lives in this world, child. So have they always been. Never let it inhibit you. In time, you will find yours.
Countless letters—reminders, stanzas, notes—folded and tucked beneath the latch of her door, beneath the midday-breakfast he leaves on the staff kitchen table, beneath the welding plate in her workshop; letters she cradles, crushes, smears smooth.
(And how would you know? she wants to carve back: neon-spitting violent hate.)
In a hundred different ways, he tells her he loves her—and yet cannot manage the words I love you, in any of their forms.
He hands her specially-wrapped parcels: paints and guns and tailor-made coats. He learns which meals she will spit out, and which she will savor. He lays a gloved hand upon her shoulder, when the crowds begin to bare their teeth: a tether, a blanket, a reassurance. He leaves room for her, unasked, on the days that are wretched and empty and dark, when she wants nothing more than to sit with someone, anyone—anyone who will have her.
He cannot manage the words I love you.
What he says, instead:
You are a marvel—
The greatest limitation we face sits only with ourselves.
(Her own wretchedness the nail she can never wrench out.)
You can achieve wonders the spirits alone could fathom—
This reparation, this rebirth, our people are owed.
(And what is she, within it? A vehicle for it all? Nothing more than a bullet waiting to be fired?)
You are not defined by your destruction—
This is our genesis; our revolution.
(Her genesis had rained in fire and smoke; her genesis had devoured all in its wake.)
You're strong, now.
Sometimes, that is a comfort enough. But only just.
She wants him to hold her. Wants him to smile, fully: shark-teeth glinting sly and unabashed. To snicker with her, cradle her hand blithely into the crook of his arm and sweep her off the streets, out of her own head, into shops and theatres and galas and lecture-halls; to greet her with open arms and a tired Good morning, instead of a gruff When shall I expect you, for dinner? in passing; wants him to be Vi—
(But Vi didn't want her, either. Didn't need her.
Vi told her to stay away—)
So of course she doesn't believe it, doesn't allow herself to, when he rests a cold hand behind her ear: draws her into the soot-smoke earthen-spice of his collar: lets her cry into the silk of his clothes, for as long as the tears demand of her, and does not push her away.
(How could she?)
Of course she refuses, when he leafs through a collection of yellow-paged folktales, legs crossed atop his dark comforters and his voice a dry, drousing drawl: awake for two hours too long now, but not shooing her out, not until she's ready—until the voices have quieted, lulled her mind to dim flickering, heavy on the pillow beneath her ratty hair and the bony shoulder against her cheek and her chipped nails a mangled cat's-paw at his sleeve.
(Why would he?)
Of course she denies, when he shields her with the tall line of his back: wields knives and pistols as naturally as another limb, to ward off any threats that could cross their path—and denies again, when he cups a blood-stained palm too firmly to her cheek, his body still in one piece (always), still put together (broken, but never shattered), red glossed through the fibers of his fancy suits yet not enough to care, huffing Are you alright Are you alright Are you alright—?
He cannot manage the words I love you.
But in a frail voice, firm voice, embers in the dark, he says:
You are my daughter. I'll never forsake you.
(And how could she have known? How could she have known?)
But she'd never managed the words either, had she? Never dared to. Never tried.
(So how, too, could he?)
jinx and silco / a daughter
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