Kiran Speaks

She met me on a bridge, the only one left untouched by fire. I looked into her ember-lit eyes, at the soot smudged on her face, at the ash in the crevices of her hands, in the cracks of her smile, and underneath her fingernails. Scars lined her body; burn marks forged in flame and fire. I traced a hand over mine too; I knew what it was like to burn. I knew what it was like to blister, boil, and scream out in agony while no one heard. I knew what it was like to wake up to the smell of your own burning flesh.

She was the most beautiful sight I had ever seen.

She told me she heard of a man named Death. I told her I knew him all too well. He was a force of chaos and destruction, a horseman who came around when least expected and destroyed the living and the dead in your world—the world you knew and the world you thought you would know. He took people you loved, and as he took them, he took a part of you as well. I wondered what it would be like to look him in the eye and ask “why.” I wondered what it would be like to see the truth—that Death was not a man at all. Death was a woman with my face.

I do not know peace, but I know what it is when I am with you. The way we fit into each other is like a jigsaw puzzle with imperfect edges and sides that align and mould together the way they are meant to. The girl in you sees the girl in me. She sees what I need and crave. She holds me at night, whispering that everything is going to be alright. She takes my hand and tells me she understands, and she can wait. She tells me she loves me for not only the good but also the flaws and imperfections that go beyond the visible scars. She says she loves me for who I am and not what I could or should be. She tells me she loves me.

She tells me she hears me.

She tells me she sees me.

She was a girl who looked like me.