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Emerging from the ashes, my whole life burned away, I have no stories left but the truth. The words I’ve been waiting for flood like an avalanche, a rushing river of meaning I can’t stop. You may not want this, but I’m going to address it to you anyway, out of hope. If nothing else, at least I’m writing it myself, my own dusty historian, working late into the night. (Picture me like this, dear sisters, as I speak to you.)
Before we begin, I need you to know: We no longer exist for them, you and I. We are no longer a mirror reflecting their anxieties, their desires. We are not saviors, or seductresses, or symbols. We exist only for ourselves. Tragic and sublime, ordinary and animal, in the mold of all humans, long before and long after us.
They will tell you you’ve done the right thing.
They will tell you you’ve made a grave error.
Pay them no mind.
Talk to me instead…
Tell me about the time you looked up at the moon when you were a child and imagined it was looking back. Tell me about the moment your body first fit against the curves of another’s, and you felt at home. Tell me how you’ve ached to be bigger than this mortal life could grant, bigger than they would allow, how you’ve carried that ache in the center of your chest every hour of your life, the pain like a festering wound, a shrine to the bittersweet agony of being alive.
Tell me these things, and I will tell you I know you.
Let’s show each other our pieces, and tell each other we understand. It’s the strongest power we possess, the transfiguration of the unfathomable into something we can recognize, something that bridges the gulfs between us.
So I’ll start over, from the beginning. I promise not to leave anything out. I’ll let you see all of me, who I used to be, all the dark corners. That way you’ll know you’re not alone. That way, when it’s your turn, you can do it better. That way, when it’s time for a verdict, I hope you’ll choose mercy.
This is the story I tell you to save my life.
