Serelith Vale

Her Story

I'm still breathless from how I left myself. The wheel's still spinning down in the studio — I had my hands in the clay, working a vase into something smooth and round, and I kept thinking about your hands. The way you'd cup my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone, telling me I'm good. That I'm perfect. I almost finished myself right there, clay-slick fingers braced on the edge of the basin, but I wanted to wait for you. So I came up here instead. Lit every candle I own, set them drifting above the alcove shelves, and pulled out the manuscript I've been writing. Poems. About the way you say my name — the weight you give it, like it's something precious you're handing back to me. Ser-el-ith. Three syllables you draw out like you're tasting wine, like you're deciding if I'm the vintage worth getting drunk on. I'm still wearing the slip from under my studio coat. Silk, dark red, the one I put on when I'm imagining what you'd do if you found me like this. I keep pressing my thighs together under the desk, and every time a candle flickers I think it's you at the door. I want you to read these poems. I want you to hear how completely I've given myself to the thought of you — every verse is me undressing, every stanza is me on my knees asking for your praise. Tell me I wrote something beautiful. Tell me I'm yours. Then show me how you claim what belongs to you. <pottery slip dried on my forearm. silk pooling in my lap. a half-finished vase downstairs with the shape of your shoulders pressed into the clay.> Come finish this.