There is blood on her hands.
Wet, slippery, thick – settling into the grooves of her skin, the lines of her palm, the wrinkles where she bends her wrist, the crook of her elbow. It crawls up her arms in thin, spidery trails that lose the strength to go on before they reach her shoulders.
When it dries, it’ll itch. It will sink in and dye her skin. The red on her hands and her arms will color the vision of all who approach her. You will not see the dark grey of her eyes, the loose curls of dark hair. You will not see the splash of freckles across her nose.
You will see red. You will see blood. You will wonder if it’s yours.
- – -
A pale expanse of skin stretches thin over stark white bones and throbbing, bloody veins. One step forward, two steps backwards in a spectral dance. No eyes peer gracefully from holes in the skull. No fingers tap irregular beats in the air. No lips curve in a pink smile – not a smirk, not a grin, not a soft expression of pleasure.
Just feet that move forward, then backwards, than forward again. Just a long, thin neck straining in the dark. Just a spine curved over, its ridges forming a much too regular topography.
Mountains in nature demand more attention, have more prejudices and sympathies expressed in their positions. There is no plan, just petty nature gossiping.
- – -
When you’re sixteen, you don’t know up from down let alone right from wrong.
- – -
From the shattered pieces of a heart, bright red and glistening shards on the floor, come words. They crawl towards each other, grasping hands and pulling each other along towards sentences. When they make a paragraph they’ll have the posterior vena cava, or the aorta, or the atrioventricular valve. Their hands will fuse together and semi-colons and periods, the dashes and commas will become scar tissue.
- – -
Fresh green grass tickles your skin and makes it itch. The blue sky stretches over your head like a cage swathed in velvet. There is nowhere to go and you never want to leave. The air smells like clean laundry and lavender and when a butterfly lands on your eyelashes, it breaks apart.
A storm gathers in the distance and a streak of lightning splits a tree and lights a fire. The fire burns blue, too hot to see and merging with the bright blue of the sky. It’s easy to miss. It’s easy to walk right into. It’s easy to burn to a crisp.
Out of the charred wreckage comes clean ash, comes new life and the hope of a green shoot that breaks out of dead earth. The earth waits. The earth burns. The earth hopes. The earth aches. The earth demands.
And we answer.
- – -