Tell me your story.
I want to piece you together, all the layers that make you up.
You, left of me in Sociology class. Always wearing flip flops, even on rainy days.
You, friend of a friend I met late one night in a dorm lounge. You mixed my name up with someone else’s. We talked about the representation of marginalized identities in popular art, and then we talked about how pretentious we felt for talking about that.
You from last semester’s anthropology class, short pixie cut and lego earrings, long peasant skirts, high tops. Big smile.
I want to know.
I love stories.
Stories define me.
Stories are the weave of me.
We all have them, hiding behind our ears or in tucked away strands of our hair.
Stories flow along the lines in our palms,
Bounce from summer freckle to summer freckle of our faces.
I want to hear as many of the world’s stories as I possibly can.
Not the worn ones that get told over and over again, the party line stories.
I want to hear the other stories
I want to hear the stories we hide away.
I want to hide the stories tucked in the folds of your winter scarf,
Woven into your braid.
Knotted up in your shoelaces.
In all your secret places, there are secret stories.
Can I hear them?
I want to hear the not quite funny stories, comically tragic stories, the bad day stories, the unfinished stories and fragmented stories. The stories that are the stuff of us.
I want to hear
I want to patch you together.
Are you willing to tell me? Are you ready?
Here with my ears and my pen,
I am listening.