She hunted for a thickness in the sentences that formed silently. Hours were swallowed whole, gulleted smooth. The globe was comprised of bone and organ, the mandible of the sea, the larynx and thyroid, the scapula and vertebrae that held it all together.
Moving organs aside with her hands, she could see the sickness beating in them. She was certain she could feel the pressure of it in her hands, a brilliant pulse in her belly. She felt the heavy words pressing at her mouth – the words scalded her insides. Sometimes she woke to the dull thrum of all the words he’d ever said beating a new sort of pulse through her head.
Sometimes she woke with the feel of his tongue pushing against the roof of her mouth and thought – if only he pushed hard enough – he could give her the words. His thoughts were loud enough to blister, to inch belly-ways and shard outwards.
I was no good as a mythmaker. Never have been.