an oversight:
Skin starts peeling at the treeline.
Sloughing off in great sheets
When the limbs overlap in lattices;
Keeping off the atmosphere.
You’ll never find a snakeskin in the garden,
But the forest is another matter entirely.
Soon, its rough flesh will begin to grate
And you’ll glow redly
And learn to wind between the bent-together bodies
Then, to the quick--
And when there is pulp
Clinging to the tree trunks,
You’ll find there is nothing in your pockets
But loose soil
And those tricky
Molten-metal
Squirming things
That you thought you’d thrown away
diana
she built you from clay.
just clay.
nothing more.
she laid you down in the kiln of her ancestors and you c r a c k e d open and there you were.
flesh.
blood.
eyes, lips, calves, fingers, all where they should be.
she was pleased, no doubt.
you usually don't make a functioning organism with your first art project.
(of course she's special. she has divinity running through her veins, no, not running, sprinting. a coursing rapid that never stops flowing.)
you saw her for the first time, eyes open, and frowned.
she frowned in reply.
her first child.
she did not know what to make of you.
she had never been a mother before. had never wanted to be. maternity was not an instinct that came as quick or clear as warfare, but she learned it all the same.
she did not know what you would become yet.
she called you "brisa". unclear.
you were born a child, not an infant. you were crafted for childhood. you were made to run before you crawled.
your mother takes you to the training grounds and dresses you in leathers. there will be no silks for you; you are neither goddess nor princess. though there is nothing on this island that may hurt you, you are protected from the world.
and when you hold a sword for the first time, you smile, your teeth so white behind your pink lips and brown skin.
and she names you. "diana". for your white teeth; white as the moon; white as the hunter's fletching.
you train and you train and you train and suddenly you are grown.
your limbs lengthened while you were not looking, the roundness of your face now all sharp edges beneath your calloused palms.
you are not vain.
and while childhood meant nothing to you and your arms are no longer as weak as they used to be, something irrational inside of you will miss seeing that girl's face in the drinking fountain; wavering; but indefinitely there.
you train and you train and you train but you age no more.
one night, when you are bored with throwing and catching a dagger above your head, you seize your raven locks and they flutter onto the marble floors like tendrils hissing and reaching back towards you; clinging to the past.
you go to the drinking fountain. it is still you; your hair is shorter. you do not know what else you expected to see.
by morning, your hair is grown again.
you decide you will not cut it again.
you awake in a bed so different from the one you slept in as a girl. but it is not unfamiliar.
yes, you think, as you begin the particularly gruelling task of wrangling your tangled curls, this is my life now.
a lifetime ago, you left the island. what for, you remember well. but it does not do well to dwell on the past.
you can return, you know this. you will return. eventually.
you wear a different type of leather these days. no more bracers or chest plates, you wear coats and gloves. the need for subtlety overshadows all the years you have trained; you are almost annoyed. but you know you will not grow weaker.
fired clay cannot melt.
your colleague greets you at the door.
if one were to not look too closely, you could look like siblings. the same curled black hair, the same unnecessary glasses, the same sense of fashion - well-dressed, but not overly so. tweed, no gingham. a courteous smile - no, cautious.
but his square jaw diverges. he does not share your high cheekbones.
he smiles at you and you smile back.
you suppose he is the closest thing you have to a brother. after all, he does not belong to the world of man either.
and yet, you both feel compelled to protect it.
you still do not know whether your mother would be proud or disappointed.
you did not ask her before you left.
and you have not been back since.
what would she say?
before you drown under the weight of your thoughts, you arrive.
the old butler takes your coat - it is only a formality, but he always was one for tradition. (though he is never opposed to his master's sudden bursts of innovation either.)
"diana." the man of the house stands on the staircase.
"bruce," you reply. you are stronger than him, and you know that it makes him nervous. (he does not sweat or shake, not even the slightest, but you know these things; a hunter sniffing out prey. of course, you would never think of hunting him down.) (not unless he gave you a reason to.)
"i have someone waiting for you." he ascends the staircase again.
you look to kal-el - he chuckles at his old friend's stiffness - and follow him upstairs.
you do not come to bruce's house unless you have to. most things do not require his help; you do not come to him; he does not come to you.
the two of you deal with very different issues; you believe it is best you stay in your spheres.
(kal-el is different. he will do whatever he can. whatever people want him to do.)
(you are not sure if he is kind, compassionate, or incredibly naive.)
the second floor is just as dark as the first. the one thing the waynes have not invested in is quality light fixtures. you comment so when bruce is within earshot.
he pretends not to hear.
(you suppose he doesn't feel the need to put on his "i am the night" facade today. perhaps he is tired.)
the three of you are standing in front of a door. it is not remarkable in any way, other than that it is the only door in a mansion seemingly packed to the rafters with empty rooms that bruce has led you to.
"i'm not going to pretend i understand this whole situation myself," he says. "so i won't try to explain it. it's better if i show you."
you nod. (but not before tightening your grip around the lasso in your pocket.) (bruce seems relatively calm, if not slightly disturbed. still, you don't want to take any chances.)
(kal-el takes no such precautions. his body is a weapon; his body is a shield.)
bruce opens the door.
you were left on the doorstep on an orphanage in new york.
at least that's what Ms Prince told you. (it's what she tells most of you. it's probably what happened to most of you.)
you didn't mind it, not really. it didn't matter to you that you don't have a mother or father. you have a family right where you are. these people are your family. (they raised you after all, didn't they?)
you played baseball in the park with the boys and got a's in school.
it was how life was meant to be.
anonymity. rhythm. security.
but then the dreams came.
in the dreams, you flew. you fought. you won. again and again and again.
those were most of them.
but then there were other dreams.
shorter.
smaller.
they seemed less important.
a woman dressing you in animal skins, handing you a sword fit for a small child. (you remember dream-you smiling.) cutting clumps of hair off with a dagger, and watching the strands writhe like snakes in your hand, before falling limp onto the cold floor. looking at a quivering reflection in the ever-moving waters of a fountain. (was that you?)
was that you?
"who is this?"
"i found at my doorstep. she was raving about how 'it should've been here'."
"did she specify what?"
"i'm sure bruce is smart enough to specify if he had heard."
they're talking as if you're not there.
you pretend they aren't there either.
but it's strange.
you could swear you've seen the tall woman before.
you could swear you've seen this girl before.
dark hair, furrowed brow. she curls into herself on the sofa as if she wants to fade away. (it is clear she feels the scrutiny of your eyes on her.) (you are speaking of her, after all.)
"bruce, when did you find her," you say, tone even.
"just this morning," he says. "i usually don't deal with children, but albert insisted you would want to meet her."
you raise an eyebrow. "why?"
he shrugs almost imperceptibly. "i didn't talk to the girl. he did."
kal-el stifles another laugh; the extent of bruce's apathy is appalling.
you walk over to the couch and sit down next to the girl. her eyes dart sideways but she doesn't face you.
"i'm diana," you say. "what's your name?"
"diana," she says.
your heart skips a beat. how peculiar.
"diana," you say, "i need you to tell me what you told albert."
her eyes flash. "i already told the old man i'm not crazy! i don't need a fucking therapist!"
"i'm not a 'fucking therapist', diana," you say. "i just need to know what you told him because apparently that's why i'm here."
"counsellor, whatever," she spits. "i know psychiatry when its shoved down my throat."
you blink. it is clear from her skinny arms and hollow eyes that she is not a strong girl - she could never best hippolyta like you did. but she fights with her words. her teeth are bared - white as bone, white as a hunter's fletching.
"bruce," you say, "call albert."
you turn to diana. "you are not a prisoner here. just wait a little longer." the girl ignores you, intent at glaring at the wall.
you stand up and leave the room. kal-el and bruce follow.
"an orphanage," says albert. "she said there used to be an orphanage here. her home, apparently."
"the only orphanage in gotham is blocks away," you say. "it's an unusual mistake."
"and there's never been an orphanage on this lot," says bruce, "not even before my parents."
"the lady insists that she is sane of mind," albert reminds you politely, "but also seems to think she is in a city called 'new york'." he pauses. "unfortunately for us, such a city does not exist."
a city that doesn't exist.
a theory comes to your mind.
themyscira does not exist on this world either, at least not on any mappable plane.
what if...
your ancestors were not born onto this rock. your legends tell tale of a pilgrimage undertaken by only the strongest warriors to found a new civilisation in a universe like their own.
what if...
you run back to the room.
the tall woman - diana - throws open the door and you jump.
"jesus christ!" you exclaim. "ever heard of knocking?"
"what is your name?" she says.
"diana, you already fucking know that, same as yours!" you're yelling now. what does this woman want?
"what is your name?" she asks again, more insistent this time.
"diana fucking prince, what does it matter? it doesn't mean anything!"
but the look on her face says that that's not true at all.
I am me
I am so deeply and thoroughly myself
I am so incredibly complicated and so awesomely complex
It’s one of my favorite things I have grown to see inside of myself
And yeah
Without a shred of doubt I know that it is too much for most people
I know that I am too much for most people
Which used to make me so sad
So very sad for the way it felt
To feel so completely separated from the world around me
To feel so completely misunderstood by the people that surrounded me
I grew to acknowledge and accept that people didn’t understand me, and that they probably never would
It’s alright with me because it has to be
I need to start exploring and adoring the parts of myself that MAKE ME this way
That make me so AWESOMELY complex, and messy, and messed up, and crazy
I need to stop trying to shove certain parts of myself away and out of the sight of others, and trying to cover up the parts of me that I’m afraid they won’t like, or that they may reject.
I need to give myself credit where it is deserved, and accept the fact that I am UNDENIABLY human..
and that there HAS be room for error
There HAS to be room for flaw....
I honestly wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because I am brilliantly unique.
And because I am brilliantly me.
Love
Once a love so deep
The pain as it fades away
It’s unbearable
I have tried so hard
But got nowhere
I show you love is still there
You still don’t come back
My darkness gets darker
As your light gets brighter
I try to make you understand
Love is still there
Still you don’t come back
I begged and I cried
You still left
And my heart has been broken ever since
