Alternate Narrative

When you asked me what I was, I didn’t have an answer for you so I didn’t speak.  I would tell you I’m a writer, but the evidence points that I am written.  Maybe I’m a woman, but you can’t read that in the dance of my hands, so how accurate can that description be?

Then you asked me how I happened and I told you a long sad story about a giant bottle, about the butt of a Marlboro red, about a neck brace, about cruel words, about tears shed too late.  You didn’t believe that those things could make me, so I told you another story about a book full of leaves, about kind eyes and warmth, about bike rides, about constellations, about railroad tracks, about a madman and a jumping bean.

I tried to kiss you before you could ask me any more questions.  I tried to undo your belt.
These are unanswerable questions – like the letters we never sent.

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