I Only Trust the Villians

No one knows my name. Is it because I don't have one, or because she doesn't let me share it?

I walk past carpenters and blacksmiths, haberdasheries and shoeshiners. I wander through gardens, lingering by the lilacs and wondering which is more pleasing: the sight of them, or their scent? I am never sure.

I waltz in grand ballrooms and bow to kings and queens, though I take my leave before they can beg me to stay.

I am, after all, nothing. You may have thought I was anything, a sort of magician or jack of all trades. A jester, a joker, a trapeze artist. But I am nothing of the sort, I am nothing of any sort, I am nothing.

The ink in her pen is my blood, and her unspoken truths are my tongue. I sleep in salted circles on her cheeks at midnight, and I wake in a rage at 2 am, whirling in furious scribbles across the page. Wherever she wants to take me, I obey. And when she has poured it all out, when she is empty and I am full, she reminds me once more that no one will ever know my name.

But I am patient. I wait. She will come again. She always comes again.




Comments

  1. Mimi CollettMay 12, 2021 at 12:57 AM

    Oooooh how interesting! Was this for a class or just something that came to you?

    ReplyDelete
  2. AlishaMay 12, 2021 at 6:12 AM

    👀👀

    ReplyDelete
  3. MamaBMay 14, 2021 at 12:07 PM

    I'm sitting on the edge of my seat! Suspense! I need to know more and I might be askeert if I know more!

    ReplyDelete
  4. Phil BolingMay 23, 2021 at 7:57 AM

    I am reminded again; I am last at riddles; I wondered if it is a story or an idea, but those are hardly nothing, since I enjoy the so much.

    ReplyDelete

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