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A recorded reading of “Margin Notes in Gold”. If the player does not load, use the original audio source.
I wrote myself small to fit the line, tucked my real voice in parentheses— made my grief look neat, called it fine, as if pain needed symmetry. In the margins I left faint glyphs— half-truths, soft screams, unfinished prayers— a foil-ink flicker the lamp would catch only when I leaned in close. The opal page turned itself in the dark and the blank stayed open like a stare. Gold ink wakes when my fingertip warms it, rising in the grain like heat. What I hid for safety is the part that keeps breathing. —page-turn: a clean stop— I wrote myself in the margins— pencil-light, almost erased. Tonight I cross the gutter, set my words down where the sentence lives and let them take the space they take. I pull the catalogue drawer. My card is there—creased, coffee-stained— filed under Complicated, filed under Maybe Later, filed under names I never answered to. Receipt after receipt slides out: almost-love, soft goodbye, “not now,” “soon,” a whole economy of postponing. I stack them square. I don’t flinch. I don’t pretty it. The desk lamp buzzes—little sun— and I do the simplest thing: I stamp the top slip with NOW. Ink bites paper. A small, loud click. Wax runs warm at the sentence-joints, not fixing—binding. Grammar loosens where I held it tight. My shoulders copy the movement. Breath comes back without permission. —page-turn: another hinge of sound— I’m not asking the room to believe me. I’m filing myself correctly. Title page: I write my name in full, no brackets, no softening. Index: I enter myself in gold— a line that points to where I am. Spine label: I press it straight, smooth it down with my thumb until it holds. And when the book closes, it doesn’t erase me. Foil ink catches once— a brief flare under the lamp— gold on my fingertips where the stamp-pad left its proof, shining without apology.
Lyrics
I wrote myself small so I’d fit the line Kept my real voice in parentheses Made my grief look pretty, called it “fine” Like pain should come with symmetry In the margins, I left little sparks Half-truths, soft screams, unfinished prayers Now the opal page turns in the dark And every blank space stares Gold ink wakes when I touch it Like it’s been holding heat What I tried to hide for safety Is the part that wants to breathe I wrote myself in the margins Now I’m the main line I don’t have to earn my presence I’m already mine If the truth is loud and tender Let it ring, let it glow I wrote myself in the margins Now the world can know I kept receipts of every “maybe later” Every almost-love, every soft goodbye Filed my dreams under “complicated” So nobody saw me try But the library don’t laugh at me It makes room like that’s the point Liquid wax rewrites the grammar Turns my fractures into joints If I stop performing If I stop playing small I might hear my real name Echo off the walls I wrote myself in the margins Now I’m the main line I don’t have to earn my presence I’m already mine If the truth is loud and tender Let it ring, let it glow I wrote myself in the margins Now the world can know I’m done apologizing for taking up air For needing softness, for needing repair If the page is blank, I’ll start again No more hiding in the “almost” and “when” I wrote myself in the margins Now I’m the main line I don’t have to earn my presence I’m already mine Gold on my fingertips I let it shine
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