Stories They Want To Hear (STWTH)

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Ruth Mahogany

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At night, when the moon is out
They will form a circle and sit around
And their ears will itch for a perfect story
We will look them right in their faces
And say out loud, there is none
That the stories they wish to hear do not exist

We will tell them that the tales we have to tell
Whether of ourselves or the things
We have seen on this earth
All belong to a world distant from perfection
They will seek tales of utter bravery
But we will tell them of fears
We will tell them of scars
We will tell them of tears
They will want to hear that we reached these top floors through elevators
But we will tell them about the stairs
That there were little or no rosy ways around the steps
That on some days, our thighs hurt
But we kept climbing still
We will tell them of crooked lines
That straight lines are a myth
Oh, oh, oh, ok, maybe they exist
But only when drawing polygons
Shey they say our stories have shapes
But the geometry of our tales is made up of multiple jagged edges
And many intersecting arcs
To tell of a definite shape will be a false account

They will want to hear of days we fiercely faced our troubles head on
Of a skin barely graced by the opponent's weapon
Of egos that were never stepped on
But we will tell them of days our backs hit the ground hard
Days we were pushed down to the floor
Because we were cut off guard
When the word victory was too heavy for the muscles of our tongue
When the only songs we mouthed were sad rhythms under our breath
Beckoning for a bright future to come

I tell you, it was on these days that triumph was born
For roses never made a fine teacher like thorns
The finest sailors were crafted by storms
So at night in their minds we will flick a light bulb so they see
That we appreciate the short cause we have been through longer
We appreciate the food cause we have been through hunger
We appreciate the calm cause we once heard the thunder
If things were always easy we won't get any stronger
We will tell them, nah,
That we are not being sadists,
But there is no story without this
For the victories of ours that now exist
Only stemmed from conquering the pain
That we once lived, we will tell them

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