Scatter

This is a story we’ve all heard before. Trees and the smell of gingerbread in the air. Birds eating breadcrumbs show us where we’ve just been, birds eating breadcrumbs show us that we’re lost. The path ahead spells out disaster, but we go on ahead. In the story that we’ve all heard before, a witch wants to eat us. She thinks that youth lives in the bones, beauty in the muscles. In my story though, that witch isn’t as wicked as we thought, just lonely and mourning a loss, and she shows us the way home. This is how it always goes, like in the story I tell where I’m your lion killer and there in nick of time swinging my sword and you’re seduced and swooning in my arms, but you know I’m the only lion here, just a Leo and a kitten at best.  Remember the one where we were slamming cupboard doors and breaking dishes, and I was yelling This is the only thing that will ever be real and I don’t know why but you agreed and we ended up on the table, on the couch, on your bed, and we were crying, crying and smiling: never happened. If it did though, this would be the part where we were finally happy, where we got what we deserved.  That is the beauty with these stories though, we can tell them however we want, and we keep telling them, we keep believing them, we keep ending up in the same photos together, we keep believing this is real.

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