Life did not always feel this way;
like death with expanding lungs
The girl could remember brighter things
as sunlight on burned skin
and laughter
and contentment, if not happiness
Such things that roosted in the loft
of hair and skin and bone -
like quiet
and hatred
and sadness;
winged creatures that refused to fly
and left footprints
like scars on her brain
She lived; her skin itched with it
This girl made of paper
with a heart made of water
who faced a truth that was subjective -
and on this night as light as sun
she held the stars in her palms
and wished for dark
She asked herself why words,
like glass
needed to be concise and clear
when feelings are never such
and faces never so stark
Could the ink of her thoughts
be destroyed by the water of her love
that spoke in tongues
and waged one-sided war with her face?
Where was the self she sought to keep,
the riches she was taught to reap?
The garden meant to be her life;
instead grew up a barren sky
She asked these questions no one heard
to the shadow of a bird
who took flight at once
and sang her grief to the trees,
taking credit for her spoken pain.