Rhys Rodgers.

Diamonds are made for vaults and, on special occasions, fingers. My own fingers. Because I know I can trust my own fingers. So why did I lend them to you? Was I mad? Was it the madness that lent them to you? I would never say those words, but a madness, a madness sitting deep within my genetics, something beyond even the control of God. That thing may have said it.

I didn’t even give you a date to return them by.

I see you a week later, the diamonds still on your fingers and I can feel a hint. A ‘when-were-you-thinking-of-returning-them?’ crouching in my throat. But my throat holds it. I cough. I cannot breath. I choke on this unsaid sentence. You tell me to take a seat, drink some water. I drink eight classes of water in succession. Flush. Maybe I should go home, lie down, I do not look well? That is a splendid idea.

I see you doing the gardening, the laundry. I see you going out on dates with people who are not presidents, who are not fiancés. They are not famous people or relatives whom you must impress because they have wills and connections and they are a distant part of you. You have the same nose. These are the sorts of people I would wear diamonds for.

But you wear them every day! You do not take them off when you sleep! You do not wash them in bleach. You do not pray to them, whisper that they are beautiful. Remind them that the world stops and reaches towards them. The trees bend down to smell them. The stars crowd the sky, wanting to glimpse these diamonds.

Do you tell them this truth before they go to bed? (It is important!) They might have even forgotten it by now! They might think they are nothing! Do you think about what sounds they are exposed to? When you walk past an argument, do you cover them up? Do you let them sit through any and every movie - no matter the rating, no matter the language? They are soft and precious babys. Where are your maternal instincts, did you loose them in the war? When you fled the refugee camp was that the only thing that would not fit in your luggage?

I know that I must steal them away at night time, but you never take them off. I know I must form an elaborate plot to get them off your fingers. But then I could never wear them. Someone would see them on my fingers and tell someone who would tell someone who would tell you. You would confront me and I would wither under your confrontation. I would rather scratch off my face then let you see my expression. Aghast.

I would have to keep them in black boxes. Only take them out past midnight and before the morning. In this window of opportunity, I would polish them and slip them onto my fingers and whisper. Like abused children, I would tell them they are beautiful, that they are precious to me. They are loved, they are belonging. They are magnificent and fierce and brave and unstoppable. They are going places, they are worth queen fingers. They are worth being seen by people. I would make them believe the world stops and stares at their sparkle.

But they will never believe me. They cannot believe they are beautiful once they have been worn for gardening and washing up. They have been worn while watching day time television. They have been worn while walking the dog.

And it all comes back to when you said weren’t they pretty. And I said you could borrow them if you liked. You could have a lend. I wasn’t specific enough. But I had been so full of joy! My cup ran over with joy for the diamonds. I felt bold and brass and unpredictable. When I walked along a footpath I did not know which way I would go. One would think I would go forward (this is the direction the footpath goes) but no, I never knew. Of course I did always go forward, but still, the excitement was there. I felt that I could say wild things. I could say ‘you can borrow them if you like’ and the world would not end there. I could be generous and nobody would take that generosity and use it to hammer every bone inside my body into tiny little pieces. Until I could not walk, could not move my arms. Could only lie on my shattered back and stare at the clouds changing shape as I felt my body slowly coming to an end.

Like an old car coming to a red traffic light, and you know it will not start again. It comes to the traffic light. It stops. And then the light turns green. There is a line of cars behind it, but none of the peddles work. And that is what it is like for me right now. That is exactly what it is like.

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