June 11, 2020
This, all of it. The tissue and ligaments encased in skin
is the shell keeping thousands of pieces of fairy tales together.
This, all that has bound me to life.
I have torn apart the warped wooden scenes, held matches to the hard backs, torn off their coverings and poured poison into the glue that is binding me to them.
Sacrificed my solace to the gods, hoping they’d grant me permission to destroy all of it.
Bundled up my body into tiny paper castles which fit perfectly into the inner linings of a jacket and are swimming through your washing machine, all the while disintegrating.
I have hours of acts, depicting starlit mornings I have given to being frozen beneath blankets and empty opened boxes.
Attempted to release my hold on the idea of hope and love, which I grasp so tightly it’s turning my hands the colour of bluebells on clifftops that surround the love making blankets I’ve spelled out.
So bare witness to the crunching of bones under the weight of these thousands of stories.
While the ‘you’ in the tale changes, from towering monstrous imagery made of nightmares, to dainty daisy chains made in the golden hour and reeking of longing.
Through all of the disgruntled backhanded comments I have been fed in the footnotes this
flimsy collection of natural fibres has kept going and is
the only reliable character throughout each one of the sagas I continue to invite you to delve into. Whilst my
hands nervously pick apart the pages you flip through and adjust the words as you trace your fingerprints over me.
By Rebekah Hughes