One hour later, it was seeped with a pell-mell of words about a noble princess and the fire breathing, winged dragon that she threw her leg over. Soon, there was a sparkly scratchpad lying in my lap beckoning me with promises of help. After a childhood spent scanning through library shelves for tales of blood-thrumming adventure, I eventually exhausted the best and the worst. And as the hard lines of the clock move in parallel with my galloping heart, “time” eventually becomes just another word in my love’s abundant arsenal. When it is scribbled onto weathered notebooks by my own hand, I am swallowed whole into obsession-then regurgitated with a sore Opponens pollicis. Ground up, my love is the creation of a fictitious world from the dots that give my i’s meaning and the majestic curls of my j’s to the whiplike slashes of my k’s. How could I not? My love blooms into magnificence, into worlds of infinite possibilities with flying shoemakers and demon kings and talking owls, into pools of borrowable strength and wisdom and courage.
For I, in that moment, could overwhelmingly relate to the speaker.Īlthough I am not a Shakespearean character allowing his love to convince him of certain untruths, I am wholly guilty of believing the lies that my own love spins.
My hand scribbles absentmindedly on a sheet of paper as I make note of figurative devices, “metonymy” and “anaphora” and “assonance,” words far too meager to render justice to the poem’s meaning.
Words uttered by my English teacher, her voice rising with truth, only to fall to quiet equivocation. “When my love swears that she is made of truth, / I do believe her, though I know she lies,”
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