Back again to write. Back again to write from a sacred space of my own. Too long hiding = words curdle inside and my heart grows bumpy. At least I know I have a heart now. For many years I felt like a sheet of glass..fragile and sheer..someone to pass through. A ghost of sorts.
I was a ghost who lived in the walls and ate dust for sustenance. You might have noticed one of my hip bones poking out of the wallpaper...you might have heard me cry to see the moon at night. Perhaps I was the girl in a picture you passed, perhaps my hands were pressed into the canvas but you couldn't hear me without my heart.
I am writing about a girl called Alice who beat her wings in the walls, whose life unlived caused the cracks in the plaster. I am writing about the house crumbling and her wings reattaching to her spine. I am writing as I am breathing. Ernest Hemingway said to write what you cannot.
Alice is burning all the way up
The match has been lit.
It cannot not.