a few nights ago, whilst paging through a magazine, i read a letter
by ‘struggling to trust’, penned in desperation to an agony aunt column, and
she writes—this woman with an ancient question burning in her bones—that she had known a man for a long time, since they were not much more than children, and how she had planted love at his feet, in wild faith, as we women sometimes do, but
how he did not notice the fragrance of the flowers that bloomed around her when he was near, but still
for more. for him. for love.
and how they had lost sight of each other over the years, but love is a thing that does not easily die, even if it is only watered by one pair of hands,
and how there came a night where they were in the same place, geographically at least, and how he poured hot words all over her naked skin, and how she gave him her heart in her hands, and
she tells of his kiss, and his mouth and how it lingered on her limbs, and over the softest parts of her, and how he found the secret scar that runs across the half-moon of her right breast,
and she had once fought the darkness, and won, but
he did not know this, and
how his fingers had traced the full length of it, and how his mouth had moved over its landscape, on his conquering path, and how he did not stop to look into her eyes with ‘when’ and ‘how’ and ‘why’ on his lips, and
don’t scars in secret places whisper, there is more here and i am showing you everything that i have hidden from the world, and please look into my eyes and see what i am giving you, and
how the next morning he took all his words with him, and how they didn’t seem to shine as much in the light.
and what she really needed to know was how could she change so that she could be enough for him, and did this mean that he never really loved her?
and the reply came:
tell me…what do you think?
— the lies we tell ourselves.
© Liezel Graham 2019.
Photograph by Jaymantri.