@micronaps: ❛ Some things can’t be told. You live them or you don’t. ❜
she drops the butt of her cigarette onto the ground, putting it out with the sole of her boot. oh, the story these boots would tell. thank god they can’t. not that she can. edith doesn’t talk about what happened -- she isn’t stupid. it’s hard to believe & it would hurt. it would hurt to remember, each word of the story would slice open & refresh old scars, charring her shoulders again & pulling her under the water, maybe for good. she chooses to remember in small ways -- wearing the color red as a token of what she conquered, or leaving all her doors open. she’s kept the plaid shirt, hidden away where no one can ask about the missing sleeve & the burnt edges, or the lingering smell of salt water & blood & dirt. she lived it. she keeps living it. some nights she lies awake & wonders if living it has been worth living at all.
“ you’re preachin’ to th’choir, q. trust me. ”
accepting.
