nano excerpt blah

I used to think that the sun beams streaming down to me through clouds were ropes I could catch and climb on. I would imagine pulling myself up into the sky, feeling the warmth of the summer in my palms, parting clouds like lace curtains with my fingertips, urging myself through them. I used to think that mushrooms were stools. I would imagine the fairies that pranced on them at night. I believed in magic, in wishes coming true, in the stories adults told me. I would make wishes on dandelions. I wished that I was a mermaid and that I could fly. I thought the reason they didn't come true was that I was greedy. I knew, though, that every dandelion had at least a hundred dandelion fluffs and that a hundred dandelion fluffs could probably carry two wishes. What I didn't know was that the mystery lollipop flavor was really just all the extra bits of every flavor mixed together so no matter what you guessed you were wrong. What I didn't know was that people plant land mines to kill other people when they could plant forests instead. What I didn't know was that my parents wouldn't love each other forever and that my two best friends would move away and we'd forget each other eventually. I didn't know the weight of my words.

They tell me that no two snowflakes are alike, but I know that they taste the same. I've fallen into snowbanks on the side of the paths up our mountain. I've slipped while ice skating on my aunt's lake in Ohio, ended up on my back with snow falling on my face, onto my lips. I've rolled down the window on road trips to Grandpa's ski lodge, let the crystals melt on my arms and leave spots on my seat belt. I remember Mom driving through the long tunnel, how the radio would cut out into static that sounded like snow, how the sun would be so far away we'd realize that we were driving through the base of a mountain. The lights were yellow and came from above me so when I looked out the wind shield, all I saw was my reflection with a strange halo of polluted air mixing with the color of my hair. On one side of the tunnel, it was still fall, and when we came out the other side, Mom would always gasp, her breath turning to clouds, tell us to look at the snow. I'd roll up my window and watch the flakes running toward me, hopeful, then hitting the glass.

I read my poetry out loud because I feel like that makes it more real. I think my voice is alive sometimes. It sneaks up on me when I'm not expecting it. I imagine myself differently than the mirror tells me I am. I'm always surprised when I catch a glimpse at myself. Maybe I think I should have more wrinkles by now or maybe I think I should be made out of stone. I feel sometimes like I've been carved. My edges seem too sharp to be natural. My bones are too hard to be made of bone. I think I'm made of granite. You tell me I'm crazy while you eat pomegranates with the skin still on. You say you feel bad for peeling the skin off of anything as if it's not good enough, as if its sour taste is offensive when really it just reminds you of the poison you've poured into the world. The oceans have a salty aftertaste and the rain is too bland these days. The soil makes my throat too dry and I can't chew bark anymore; my teeth are forgetting what softness is. I read my poetry out loud and they ask what these noises are. I weave my tongue into baskets and use them to carry everyone else's words.

Today I learned that trees can grow through fences. They just reach out their limbs and refuse to stop growing. I think people are like this. I think they are like this until I listen to them speak. They tell me that they've given up.

I whisper words to no one in the nights that feel like very early mornings. I wait for the sun to rise because I know it's more likely than the rain, although I wait for that too, as if it is a sure thing. I think about god and pretend to reach a conclusion or two. There is a box of tissues on my nightstand. There is a silver comb in my top drawer. It belonged to my grandmother and is carved with roses, cold metal petals against my fingers, reflecting my fingerprints so close there isn't enough light to see them. I want to comb your hair. The closest I've come is running my hands through it like they're raindrops. I glide across its surface like your body is a frozen pond. I take careful steps when I'm near you because I don't want to scratch the ice, etch it so it looks like lace from the sky and birds are distracted as they pass over, run into the windows of our living room and only turn around at the last moment, just enough time to see their reflections, see the fear blooming in their eyes, blooming in metal roses harder and stronger than bones, even those that aren't hollow.

I like to sit in leaf piles because it's impossible for them to sneak up on me. Every time the wind shifts the leaves, I turn, my eyes burning, and wish that I'm still alone.