scrub a hand through broken leaves,

and tell me it's not at all what it seems

circling thunder like a sickening rumble

through and under and overneath the gardens

like weeds

endless grasping gurgling gnarled knowing

ruts and holes and empty open words

meaningless now that they've touched the sky

like wingtips

hissing over the weight of the wind,

forthcoming and foregoing and forgetting

it's different when you're around and even

differenter when you're not, but it's all

so endlessly confusing

when i'm built of mud and soot and loose limbs

fold me up into a box,

and let me get rained on.

scrub a hand through broken leaves,

and tell me it's not at all what it seems

"Reagan?"

The voice is muffled, but only because I've pulled my blankets over my head. I think, if I was allowed, I'd sleep forever and ever and ever, and I'd murder the sun so it wouldn't wake me up.

There's footsteps on the stairs, so I press my eyelids closer together, willing everything to turn off. The sound, the light, the day.

"Reagan, it's two o'clock." Dad's voice isn't mad. He stopped getting mad months ago, and now he's just perpetually disappointed in me.

I roll over and clutch my sheets tighter, willing him not to come in or say anything else.

It works.

I can tell he's hesitating, because there's no sound at all, then his footsteps fade away down the hall.

I wish he hadn't done that, because now I feel guilty. If he'd knocked my door down and yelled at me it would've been easier to stay in bed. But instead he just silently hates me, I guess.

* * *

The clouds are like fish, I think. Swimming around in an endless sky, nowhere to go. I wonder what that's like, to be a fish. Do they know the ocean goes on for ages, or do they just stay in the same part of water that they've always been in?

I throw an arm over my face, sick of the sky, and close my eyes. I'm laying in the backyard grass, where it's sticky and hot, mostly because Dad won't bother me out here. The heat's too much for him.

It's too much for me too, but I pretend it's not.

I peel some hair off my forehead and sigh, my eyes opening again because it's just too hot and buggy to feel relaxed at all. The cicadas don't help either, they're so loud. I put my hands over my ears and stare at the clouds some more.

* * *

The mail comes. I know because no one else ever comes to visit, and the tires on the torn-up road out front sound like the earth is tearing in half. What a horrible noise.

I'm in a tank top and my pajama shorts still, but I roll to my feet and come round to the front of the house anyway. All my shorts are pajama shorts, really. I think all clothes should be pajamas, and vice versa. What's the difference, anyway?

The mail truck pulls away, and I wander down to the mailbox and yank it open. Bills. Birthday card for Dad. Bills. Junk. A little envelope.

A little envelope for me.

I shove everything else back into the mailbox. I was going to bring it inside but now I can't be bothered. I retreat to the backyard, all the way back by the creek, where I know it's extra buggy but at least there's no chance of Dad finding me.

Even in the moderate shade it's hot. I'm so sweaty that the yellow of the envelope is darker where I've been holding it. Circles of wet paper. I wonder if I've ruined whatever's inside.

I put my feet in the stream, my toes curling on the mossy rocks, and just stare at the envelope in my hand. It has a return address, but I don't recognize it. No name, either. I wonder if that's even allowed.

I just stare at it. I'd wanted to rip it open when I'd first seen it, but now I just feel tired and I don't even care what's in it. Probably nothing important. A weird looking college mail? They mostly email me, but I still get things in the post sometimes too. They tell me how great their campus is, and how many student activities there are, and how happy the students are.

I can't really picture myself in college. I think I'd probably be crap at it anyway, so there's really no point.

A mosquito is on my leg, and I kill it, but I can tell it's already bitten me. It reminds me that I have a different bug bite on my other leg, so I scratch it even though it's not itchy. Now it itches.

I flip the envelope over and break the seal, slide the letter out.

Hi Reagan!

You're probably thinking it's weird for me to send a letter and it is. But I've made it my mission this summer to stay in contact with everyone and so this is the first one. I'm not away on holiday or anything exciting, so I don't even have a postcard, but I thought this might be fun! A bunch of people in movies do this kind of thing. You'll appreciate that more than other people, I think, since you like movies.

So far the only exciting thing I've done is chipped a tooth and that's only because my brother pushed me out of a tree. Have you done anything exciting? Or climbed any trees lately? You don't have to write back if you don't want to but I hope you at least text me. I'm pretty sure you should have my number if you haven't deleted it. Hope to hear from you!

Parker

I read it probably three times. It is weird. Parker and I are friends, I guess, but not in a write-letters-to-each-other kind of way. We're not even friends in a text-you-every-once-in-a-while kind of way. I'm friends with Parker in the way that the earth is friends with the sun. It's just kind of nearby and keeps showing up.

Though it's not the best metaphor, because I don't orbit Parker.

Parker's one of those people that everyone likes, and everyone knows. He's nice, and funny most of the time, and overly, annoyingly enthusiastic and optimistic. He makes you feel like you're really important, when you talk to him, and then he bounces away, onto the next person, and you remember that you're nothing and you're going to die and turn to dust one day.

That's how I see it, really.

So it's a nice gesture, I guess, to write letters to people, but he's writing them to everyone. So that doesn't make this very special at all.

I scratch at my mosquito bites and slip the letter back into the envelope. I'd toss it in the creek and let it get washed away, but I'm not that dramatic and I'd rather just chuck it in the grass beside me and lie down.

But I don't do that either, and I stare at the yellow envelope until it blinds me, all the while tracing the lettering that says my name. Reagan. Parker hand-wrote it, and I'm not very sentimental, but something feels awfully sentimental about that.

not a repetition, just

another word, that's right–

write down those bleeding

feelings you're always

so keen to immortalize.

and say something new,

spit things out, let secrets

slide from the brain grooves,

ooze straight onto the page.

don't worry, we'll allow

you a second the this

time around (maybe a

few more) if your head

stays on, ink hands.

never as easy as it looks,

you've done it again,

accept that as metaphor

(unspoken!) for all to hear;

prim listeners go ahead,

riddle fragments into sense.

ricocheting neurons–

holding mismatched

letters together, simply

butterfly-delicate mushy

conjectures: anti-simple;

i'll forget recording these

squiggles, at least until

tomorrow.

i wrote you in silence,

i expected things to be easy

when i had nothing to say

you didn't mean a thing

then why do i smell like roses

and when did the flowers outside

my window start to bloom?

i wrote you in silence,

cause it was all just fantastical :

a bubbling stream out of reach

you weren't supposed to mean a thing

but now i'm walking on torn petals

just don't leave don't leave don't

leave without me, i don't know you

because

i wrote you in silence,

but now i have the words, maybe,

if i'm not too afraid to speak

somehow you mean something

just peel the rosebuds off my skin

i smell like roses again, and

it's because of you.

lightning flash

off the white of your teeth

-

raging splash

from far under deep

- -

antlers crash

like star-shattering grief

- - -

sparrows thrash

in glittering forever-sleep

- - - -

dotted dash

to mark the underneath

won't you stay

to watch the leaves swirl around my feet

and tell me i'm a girl

and sometimes i feel pretty

and sometimes i act dumb

and sometimes

most times

i don't believe any of it

because

i'm not sure i'm allowed

won't you stay

to watch the roses bloom under my feet

i've never asked anyone to stay

just

read a few of my

poetry thoughts, and you'll believe me

so know,

please,

that I won't ever ask

but at the same time

you're in my dreams,

which makes everything realer, in a roundabout sort of way

so tell me if i'm alive

or if i'm capable of growing flowers

from the inside out

cause sometimes

most times

i don't believe any of it

and

in my dreams i ask

won't you stay

being unseen

then

being seen

what once was

impossible

becomes

possible

lift a hand to the sky

and thank life

for

bringing you joy

being broken

oh so broken

then

realizing it's a lie

and

you've been here the

whole time

it's a whole

new

way of living,

when you're free

even in the

dark

i can spread

rainbow paint

with the toes

of my tennis shoes

it's unseen

but

i can see

Her eyes locked on the woman's earrings before registering her face. Two perfect, glittering aquamarine teardrops hung in the air under her earlobes, as if suspended by nothing.

Perfectly matching her own.

It was impossible.

"Rhia? Are you alright?" Theo lowered the glass of champagne from his lips and stared at her oddly.

She blinked, realizing their hands were still clasped, and her fingers had curled around his like a creeping vine. She dropped his hand abruptly, which only seemed to upset him more.

Theo flagged a caterer with a single raised finger and a raised eyebrow, and a young woman offered Rhia a platter of tall glasses, all filled with bubbly drink. She waved the woman away, trying to see around her, to spot the woman with the earrings again.

"Take a drink and calm down," Theo told her lowly, pushing a glass into her hand. He'd swiped it from the caterer as she'd walked away.

"I am calm," she replied, but her voice was tight.

The woman across the way was tall, angular, and rigid. Her eyes glinted and her full lips were set into a determined line. Her natural black curls were tied back with a scarf that matched her dress: a deep, mysterious blue.

And her earrings. Her earrings were undoubtedly identical to Rhia's own.

"Hey," Theo stepped into her line of vision, his glasses sliding down his nose as he bent down to her level.

Rhia looked past his shoulder at the woman, her attention divided. She reached up and touched one of the earrings on her own ear, confirming that her own aquamarines were still there.

Her fingers touched the cool gemstone, and instantly everything sharpened.

She could hear every bubble in every champagne glass pop, throughout the entire room. If she'd taken a moment, she might've even been able to tell you which glass each one came from.

Rhia could also see two wrinkled white men in suits, both standing in front of her, arguing with each other, though time seemed to move too slow for her to make out any words. Theo was somewhere else, but where?

Out of the corner of her eye she saw another woman with aquamarine earrings, but recognized her instantly. She had a hand to her ear, and was peering over the shoulder of a tall man, who was pushing up his glasses, who was most certainly Theo. She, the other woman, was most certainly, most impossibly, herself.

Spreading a hand in front of her face, she found it adorned with rings. Not her own. And the skin was much darker than her own, and the dress on her body was a deep, mysterious blue.

Then the world spun, and she thought she might retch, and she felt fingers dig into her shoulder. "Rhia. Dear lord, you're not drunk are you?"

She blinked into Theo's concerned face. Her eyes flashed past him, and for the briefest second, her gaze collided with the mysterious woman.

The other woman parted her lips, but Rhia felt too sick to figure out what she might be saying, she was all the way across the party, anyway, why would she think she would be able to hear her? But it didn't matter, because her body felt slippery, and the drink that Theo had put into her hand wasn't there.

She was just aware enough to hear the glass shatter.

shiplapped heart

trimmed in gold

painted red

to match the color

of doll lips

plugged and

prodded

attempted

restarted

loosely confined

to the hole

in my chest

paper mache heart

trimmed in gold

scraped and chipped

to match the color

of used china

play doh heart

trimmed in gold

polished in green

to match the color

of enchanted leaves

cozy canyon misery

firebug fortune jellybeans

glottal stopping roofbeam

dropping sipping dopamine

loosely colored sandstone

hammer worry whale bone

fish tank worship wallow

aqua doorstop swallow

useless limber luck bait

tin-head foolish fail plate

glossy gorgeous relegate

focus whiplash sail straight

forkless trusty red phone

ghostly toothache work zone

golden gusty cheekbone

left turn waving full grown