busy lately justwrite

The true colors on your wrist are hidden with dirt and shadows. The lights are off in this room, thinking darkness is something that truly exists and can bite back. I trim my petals and watch them cover my feet like snow against peaches, still warm from the summer air, potent enough to seal in a box and mail north, where the weather comes from, chased by harsh glares from mountain peaks, rolling over clouds thick as carpet, threatening to fall down onto us if we don't listen for a moment, remember, gather fog in baskets woven by one clumsy hand because it needs the experience, needs to know it can count on itself, whether or not hands have souls. The ghosts of last year's skin haunt me, as transparent as they were the first time they clung to me, veins pulsing bright indigo lightning frozen in time, trying out life and gasping at this new taste. I barely cast a shadow then, and caring faces looked down on my blood-streaked belly, warm and waiting for the wonders I hadn't met yet but glanced through thoughts connected directly to my center, a swelling line to hold me in place until my wings are dry enough, until I've shad my last layer and know my limbs, what they wish. I scream and they try to quiet me, thinking it's pain or complaints or anger, but really it's amazement, my eyelids drawn down like thick curtains before I'm ready, the light poured out through me, soaking into my bones. I clutch frantically at the cold air, trying to make sense of wind, of noise, of color. I don't love these things yet. I don't know their power, their comfort, how beautifully complicated they will be when I am walking, flying, lifting fistfuls of dirt and expecting myself to drop one, content whether it happens or not.