nothing said.

every thing i do is a symptom of the place where my life came to a standstill.

dyed hair, dark. purchased lipstick, red. scarves and velvet jackets, corduroy pants and henley sheets, fresh razors, overpriced lotion. i am desperate for warmth, color and textures against my skin.

i have been dispossessed. of my free will, maybe. of my effervescence. i only do what i must in response to this environment. i have been left only with my culpability.

where then, is bravery? do you respond innately to a stimulus, will you run toward the brightest light you see if i hurt you? are we (you, especially) brave only with our mouths?

you might be brave to put your hands on my back, soft flesh above the blades of the ilium, that bone that cradles all the organs, that bone that allows me to walk upright. you might be brave to touch me there by way of exploring new territory. you might be brave to want that. i might be brave to tell you this. the inominate, it is - the bone without a name.

you might have been brave to use your mouth to kiss me. i have friends who would label that brave, and so do you. mine would cheer, and yours might shudder. you might think i am a girl to pass on the street, not a girl to stop for.

native americans believe that the only thing a human being owns, from birth to death, is a voice. you can use that voice to cry, and that is the only real power anyone might posses.

are you brave, then, only with your voice?

i will question you again and again because i do not believe in this sort of bravery, i do not believe that you are a champion of this kind. i will question you again and again because i can't seem to stop hoping that you want to be brave, trace my bones, submerge me in choice.

how much time spent studying fairy tales. how much time spent building other lives while lying awake. how much time waiting. how much more.

can you be brave?