Chapter Text
Date: 3rd December, 1814
The ink on my fingers is black,
but the stain in the basin is a loud, violent red—
a secret I swallow back
down until it tastes like copper and spring air.
I am growing a garden in the dark
where only my ribs can feel the thorns.
If I speak the name of the root,
the house will become a cathedral of pity.
I can see the blueprints in my mother’s eyes:
she is already measuring the soil,
already mourning a daughter
who was supposed to be a revolution, not a bouquet.
They worry, though the doctor swore I'm fine.
Perhaps they know we're all lying.
I have spent nineteen years being the sharp edge,
the difficult question, the stubborn "no."
I cannot bear to be the tragedy, too.
To be a burden is a weight I know how to carry,
but to be a disappointment—
to die of a feeling I was never supposed to have—
I can't do that.
I don't know how to.
I don't want to.
But when have I ever gotten what I wanted?
So I press the handkerchief to my lips,
muffling the bloom with a practiced smile.
Bloom. I like that word.
It sounds so much less than what it is.
I will be a masterpiece of fine health
until the very moment I am compost.
Better to be a ghost they remember as fire
than a girl who drowned in a handful of gold.