24/USA "que no me lloréis. que mi nombre no se borre de la historia."
~ written from julia conesa to her mother, days before her execution under the franco regime. 1939. 119 followers / 4.7k words
knowledge is power, but the truth is terrible and great.
i don't recall where i read this, if i did, but a google search turned up nothing, so let me know if you know where it came from, or if i actually had creativity for once.
she says my heart is too big it barely fits i say i can feel the veins slithering down my wrists i was born with walls so thick no human eye could see where i began and where i ended i could feel my heart hammering away at my ribcage it wanted to get out when they tore down the walls and brought me into this world they didn’t cut deep enough
she talks in pulses and palpitations and every time my heart flutters she loses her breath i tried to tear the walls down myself i couldn’t cut deep enough
she says something a thump a thump thump but my heart is too big it’s the only thing i hear the only thing i know there’s not enough room for two i can feel my veins overflowing i can’t cut deep enough
my heart my big, big heart spilling through my ribcage it wants to get out
I WANT TO BE REMEMBERED. i want my name to echo through the ages, ringing into the ground. i want my image memorialized in someone’s eyes. i want sinking ships named after me, my name whispered as some prayer to the past.
and if that means i have to destroy the world: so be it.
all i know of life comes from dog-eared novels and dusty encyclopedias and half-caught dreams like the shadows of leaves dancing on closed blinds - other people's views.
so whisper me savage truths. don't think that falsehoods will spare us.
tell me: is what i know real, or a lie?
alternatively titled, "a recluse, speaking to a thunderbird"
STEP ONE: PROVE TRUE FOR N = 0. the first time you caught me i had a rock in my hand, fingers dug into ridges and pools. it didn't fit my hand as well as my fingers through yours, but i longed for the blackblue bruises i could leave behind. ephemeral. permanent. i wanted it so i made it work.
STEP TWO: LET N = K. the rock is still on my bookshelf, hidden behind the things i want you to see. now i substitute. walls aren't as good as corners that turn away from you. my hands aren't as good as the fists of strangers.
STEP THREE: SHOW TRUE FOR N = K + 1. boil over, epileptic - you think this is rock bottom. i don't tell you how i've been lower before, how i turned eight and almost stepped into your path as you drove away. i don't tell you how i want to SLAM my hands over my ears though i don't need to because you don't talk to me and i won't listen. i don't tell you how i can't cry unless i'm angry.
STEP FOUR: CONCLUSION. when i tell you the only truth i know you spit on it and push me aside. i suppose a rock is softer.