I was born in the forest. Not sure how, not sure when. The moon was always there, watching me silently and loudly all at once, its glow saying a thousand things and listening simultaneously. I've always wondered how it did that, but I think it's impolite to ask the moon how it glows. I have some little ideas about my birth. Perhaps I seeped out like sap, or perhaps I'm the daughter of the insects. All I know is I've got wind and water inside me.
People are here sometimes. They're all loud noises and legs. But they don't see me. They smile and run and fall and I watch them. They have water inside them too, I’ve seen some of it come out. It's a brilliant red, like a ladybird or a robin's breast. If they cry I try to touch them a little on the cheek. I can't say whether or not they notice, but regardless I always do it. I hope the moon would be proud of me. I will climb up and visit it one day.
The angel in the cottage brings me flowers. I sit by the river, the still part with rocks peeking out. I hold the small white flower in my small white hands. The angel looks at me just to look. His eyes are peppered with glowing sparks as he observes me. I hold the thin stems up to let them catch the light, arching my arm into the sunbeam above me. The angel coasts through me and we crash into the gentle river. I am laughing in small pieces like hiccups.
I have been falling for years. If I was to have the sensation of walking again I would probably have to adjust for a good while. When I first fell it was from the ledge of adolescence. I didn't see it, I just took a step and I was falling, and I have been falling ever since. All I see is colours and light spots cycling past me. They are beautiful and weird. A lot of things about this are calming by now. Falling was scary for ages, but now there are many things I can appreciate about it. I guess one day I will stop. I still believe that.
I keep his blood in a locket but in his he keeps a star,
Shrunk to a tiny spark that he can look at from afar.
He needs the brightness of the light in a vast dark,
But I need the deep, hot liquid of his heart.
Writing poetry at four minutes to midnight, sitting in a dim golden glow, watching you play with your hair, sitting in softness and warmth, blue-white light on your face.
I like climbing. Falling down is how I express myself. I carry bright colours and a flask of hot tea in my bag, and a pop song for when I need it, to release in the field and watch as it gallops through clearings and across trees. Pop songs waste no time in leaping around, running back and forth, jumping and crying, red-faced children that they are. They make me smile and I'm good at soothing them, coaxing them back so we can look at a candle together and sit and eat scones. Me and pop songs treat each other real nice. My pop song is always grumpy at me, but she loves me. I can feel it in her melody when she stifles it in her cheeks and gathers up the air in her arms, smirking at me from across the grass.
Inside Out Girl
One day I puked myself inside out and now I am the beautiful inside out girl and you love me in the most pure way.
I know it is an unconventional relationship but I am glad I get to float around your body as vapour and you still laugh at my jokes and we can't hold hands but our bond is stronger than our bodies and I have never been as loved as I am in this form.