Bit by Bit — Catherine Joan Chappell
poetry ☆
poetry ☆
She ate me. At first, bit by bit.
I showed her my curiosity, presenting the garden worm as it wriggled in small, mud-caked hands. She gobbled it whole. I restrained fingers that itched to dig through the dirt.
I shared my joy singing at volumes that make speakers shudder. She slurped each off-note out of me, and my voice quieted.
I sent her my dreams, written on pages in stacked little rows. We went line by line, ripping them out until I digested a reality where I am not good enough.
Her maw rattled, and I submitted.
She ate all of me: savoring my curiosity, tearing apart my joy, picking my future from her teeth.
I looked in the mirror and saw us, flat and palatable and voraciously hungry.
With no palette as a guide, I sampled everything, gorging myself on possibilities, choking on misfits, consuming content and experience in equal measure.
In my gluttony, I morphed into something new. I found the girl that existed before. I filled myself with her. Her noise, her joys, her dreams. It was sweet and rich, a bit bitter to balance. Together we created dishes we’d only dreamt of. We indulged. We grew.
Now we are too big to be eaten, even if bit by bit.
Catherine Joan, or Jo, is a dabbler and indulger in all things creative. She writes, reads, plays fiddle, paints, and has attempted to knit on numerous occasions.
