proseinsolence

[proseinsolence]

a short essay on literacy

my love for you is illiterate, it will read no time or distance. my love for you is stubborn, it refuses to let go of you. it’ll hang portraits of your profile on the walls of my heart cavities.

even if it stings, even if it marrows, even if you don't love me back.

[proseinsolence]

lie to me

you once told me you had a lying problem growing up. often unprompted, a lie would crawl from the pit of your throat –of its own accord, you explained– and make its way through your teeth, to slowly but surely force itself out of your mouth.

you tell me you love me, and the words sit heavy between us, occupying the otherwise vacant middle back seat of your car.

my mind can't help but picture a little girl –notable in her storytelling– entertaining a kindergarten classroom, her outstanding performance as the main act, the death of a made-up pet fish as nothing but a supporting character.

I don't do it anymore, it's what you'd followed up with, it stopped around high school.

you slide across the leather seat to kiss me with a pleading mouth in a desperate fashion. the tip of your tongue is a brushstroke down the canvas of my lower lip, painting an image that I see for what it is: something about empty dining tables at night-times, a childhood of scraped knees with a never-met need to be showed off and cared for, a hand-me-down of a habit you were grown into, but has since grown out of.

you reach for me, you trust me to look at it with understanding, and I do. I say that I love you, too.