I backed my ambulance into a tree.
I tried so hard to avoid it,
But there it was, right behind me.
I'm surrounded by trees,
And behind those is a body of water.
Nowhere to go.
As soon as I see a way between the trees
And try to take it,
I am drowning.
Desperately trying to stay afloat,
But I'm not the best swimmer.
One day, I won't be strong enough to hold on
To the air above the water,
And I'll let the water fill up my lungs
And take me, just as it took my ambulance

Throw me out the window, literally, that would probably hurt less than theoretically.
But then maybe you’d care enough to call, and talk to me for more than 49 seconds.
I wish I could tell you about my flight, but I can’t, literally, so maybe I can, theoretically.
The minute you said goodbye I felt myself take off.
I left the ground with such sudden urgency that I didn’t notice how fast I was going.
Next, I felt myself collide with the cold, hard, glass:
cold as ice,
hard as a rock.
Within milliseconds, the glass shattered into a thousand tiny pieces, each piercing my face, one by one, every time you said you couldn’t call.
And then, after the glass pulled the blood from my body, I went cold, and fell.
I’ve fallen down three stories, one for every day, and I’ve still got four more to pass.
You’d think the icy wind across my skin would feel liberating as I fall, but all I feel is cold.
falling
falling
falling
all the way down.
You say you know what this feels like, but I promise, you’ve never felt the shards pierce your soul like I have.  You’ve never felt them pierce your heart.  You’ve never fallen, with no knowledge of what will be thrown at you, and no knowledge of how far away the ground is.

And the worst part is, I’m falling alone, because you’re not here, and I can’t tell you this.
So for now, I put on a happy face, and instead of falling, I am flying.

Say my name.
Spell it out with your fingers in the air.
Scream it to the mountains,
let them hear you.
Let my name roll off your lips,
let it ride the silver waves.
Write it in the stars,
each hand picked by you.
Twinkling, you’ve chosen only the brightest
to match my eyes.
String them together with the melodies of gods.
I can hear the trumpets.
No.

Say my name.
Whisper it in my ear,
your cheek against mine,
between inhale, exhale,
“I love you.”
Take my hand,
I’ve no better use for it.
I’ll give you my heart because
without you it’s incomplete.
Everything is perfect.

As I walk down my driveway, past the seemingly endless field of
green,
sprinkled with little purple weeds, dotted with clumps of yellow
daffodils,
I think about how much I love flowers.
Roses are my favorites, but daisies and wildflowers are a close
second, I think.
I like to think of myself as a flower.  Maybe I’m a wildflower .
. .
It would make sense, seeing as my spirit is as free
as the wind that blows the petals across the fields of green.
I am a wildflower.
I am the flower, firmly rooted to the ground, unable to escape.
My roots, they are tangled, and mangled, and torn, and broken,
but strong . . . they refuse to move.
Like chains, they keep me here where the seed was planted.
I am a wildflower,
trapped in a garden of weeds . . .
none of them wildflowers.  We are not meant for the garden.
Oh no! Not when there are fields, and pastures, and valleys, and
hills, and mountains out there.
Here in the garden, we get food and water, and daily care.  But
there in the world!
That is where I am meant to be!  When I see the birds flying
overhead I shake with jealousy.
I feel the wind swaying me back and forth, as if it is calling
me.  “Come with me, oh sweet wildflower.  Let the world see your
beauty, while you see the beauty of the world.”
I want to touch the mountains.  I want to sing with the sky.  I
want to hear the wind saying,
“Look, I told you it was beautiful.”  I want to dance with it,
as it carries me everywhere.

I am writing a story.
I’ve only been working on it for almost 3 months. . . not long at all compared to how long I plan to be working on it.
It is a work of art, a masterpiece, actually.
If it were a painting, I used only the finest paint.
If it were a sculpture, the richest clay.
A photograph, the exposure was perfect.
But, it is a story. . . and hopefully, I am using all the right words.
I hope I never finish this story.  
Because if I finish the story I will have no reason to write anymore.
This story, might--scratch that--IS the best thing I have ever written.