There is salt on your fingers as you enter. This salt, born of wounds, aged by generations. It is the salt of your mother and her mother, her husband and their parents. But not your father. His salt is of a different kind, that of which salts food left to mold, food dropped from raided skies, food for pale skinned blonde babies. A baby which you are not. But a baby, that yes you are. For this salt that came with you out your mother’s womb. It has hindered you from growing up and yet also quickened the process of age.
You are wise beyond your years. Black cakes your fingers like chalk. Maybe you’re Basquiat. Maybe the chalk is pastel. Black is pastel in the right light— the right eyes. Your eyes.
Why the red line under his name. It makes you wish you were a Donahue, but no Michelangelo could paint your curves through the roses in your glasses. All they see are is thorns. Thorns used to build a throne. Your throne but never your bosom.
It is your time, you sit upon the gold put there by your ancestors for the other side of your tree. And you look at your hand and there is no more salt. For the salt has been rubbed in the wound, dusted off by the sweep of a generation.