in which a story is begun

there is this girl. she has no ears. she feels the vibrations of emotions beating into her, thrum, thrum, thrum, thrum. you don't know her but i do. i eat the thrumming, i hold my hands over her ears to stop the thrum but she has no ears. so we learn. i hold my hands over her heart, her head. we stop the thrumming. it is a whisper. is stops her emptying her belly and making seams of blood.

she is afraid. she is supine in the sunlight and the sunlight is weak and my arms do not reach that far now. where she is there is no sun that burns and bleaches to help her.

she is weak. there is no more blood in the seams but they've torn again. like the stuffed Velveteen Rabbit she squeezed in the thrumming when she was small and the thrums got too big. she just found him at the beginning house. his neck is a cotton collar now. someone tried to re-stitch but gave up, why, why did you give up on the girl with no ears?

i cannot reach her to tell her, hold him tight, repair each other's seams. we've learned.

now the thrum is too loud, it's too close, she's back at the source. the beginning house. the dark house. she lives so close and avoids it. the house hurts. 

but the thrum is seductive this time, she's older, she wants. i have taught her to speak words. i have shown her where on her belly she feels the thrums and how to press to calm it. i have taught her that the thrums will not die, she cannot silence them. she and the thrums belong to each other; they have the same blood but not the same seams. i have given her a knife. she uses it rightly now. 

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