“There were once two sisters who were not afriad of the dark because the dark was full of the other’s voice across the room, because even when the night was thick and starless they walked home together from the river seeing who could last the longest without turning on her flashlight, not afraid because sometimes in the pitch of night they’d lie on their backs in the middle of the path and look up until the stars came back and when they did, they’d reach their arms up to touch them and did.” -Jandy
Black crow eyed, and red thread stitched, I an etching on ice. I twist away from your ill intentions, avoiding distasters like it’s a dance.
I wear my tears like you’ve worn ribbons in your hair; a decoration, a declaration of what I am worth, of who I think I am. I have always been more sincere than you. More genuine. I never hid, like you, behind men and imitation.
I think you burned with the fields that fall. I think you all burned away into cinders and ash. I think I realized this just as all of you ceased glowing; a distant, far off meteor crash.
I know your ghosts were watching. You had the expectation I wouldn’t be able to thrive. That I’d lay down, instead, right there in your remains; a lostling unable to survive.
To run with the wolf was to run in the shadows, the dark ray of life, survival and instinct. A fierceness that was both proud and lonely, a tearing, a howling, a hunger and thirst. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst. A strength that would die fighting, kicking, screaming, that wouldn’t stop until the last breath had been wrung from its body. The will to take one’s place in the world. To say ‘I am here.’ To say ‘I am.