A girl called lie
“A girl called Lie lost her dog amongst the forest shadows.
The town weeps and cries behind her.
Smoke stacks lean in.
The marching men thunder the ground, like earthquakes.
She ties her shoes, brushes the hair out of her eyes.
Cold without her jacket.
Her dog, lost amongst the forest shadows leads her in to borderlands.
Years later, a girl called Lie lost among the city shadows
Escaped the marching men, escaped the rolling thunder into the arms of another town. She settles on a pound an hour.
She finds rare moments of time between the shadows and the thighs. She finally understands Nin’s “slavery to a pattern” in the place of love.
Paris cries ‘we are all too beautiful to die!’ and digs her grave between batting her lashes and tearing her stockings. Peach mornings are spent in the sinking warmth of an empty mattress.
Dragging her hands through the copper basin, water ripples like cold silk. Her hands never grew up; so small, so brittle… the veins mark the times behind.
Watching her shudder he found it terribly easy to write of death and forgetting, the final black solider breeding in the night and in the day, counting down her hours.
It’s a strange thing to pay to watch the death of a lie. Birds crash like black flags in grey skies and everything insignificant becomes beautiful.
But he writes again ‘this profession is littered with people who thought they could.’ And continues making money out of the throbbing manhood of loneliness.” © Catherine Winther