I gaze back on plodding, perpetual selves of myself,

that I deemed as moonflowers, eminently from

my cranking glare I've honed upon them,

as they ought to wither under the mere pale luster

of such a tangible gaze.

Still, they wrap their husk-bare, flaking fingers

around my arm, words as goads, prickling whets,

sinking deep beneath my buckler --

not much unlike hoar frost

creeping up palings, ready to pounce.

And now, as the book of time has scoured

through countless pages:

some parched, shrivelled to dust,

others like faded overtones of sunsets,

some as cicatrizing bruises --

I think I've finally veered my rasping ship away,

yet just as I feast upon the sunlight that spills across my cheeks,

my past selves creep back, freshly drawn,

and the overcast comes hurdling back,

and I'm crying again,

seawater for tears and brine pockets for lips.

Many nights, she dreams of strange things.

Sometimes it’s just a canvas as the sky, smattered with a euphony of midnight colours. Some light, with sky coloured blues and dappled, soft crimson. They mixed with memories she’d collected over time: some airy, some heavier; though she cherished all equally.

Once, she dreamed of music — countless notes, trilling high and low, sweeping low like a sparrow's wings, somersaulting like magpies at sunrise.

But soon, the music turned tougher, edges sharpened and all. They started to wear her out.

She learned to drown it out with the waves she stole from the ocean.

Now all she hears is the deafening cry of the sea.

As she makes her way down the school hallway, whispers sharp as knives bounce off every wall.

But she has not been taught to shield herself. When the blade strikes her back, she doesn’t even feel it.

The crowd doesn’t part when she passes, yet she cannot seem to slip among the shadows. “What an idiot,”

Was that a student’s voice, or was it the voice in head? She couldn’t tell; there were too many voices pounding in her ears that she had learned to drown them out all together.

“I’m telling you, my daughter is gifted!” her mother’s voice trembles high.

“We’re sorry, Mrs. Brando,, but she needs support,” the principal’s voice is hushed, eyes begging for her mother to quiet. “Just place her in this progr-“

“No! She’s not dumb!”

Outside the office, she presses her palms to her ears and squeezes her eyes tight, drowning out the voices — something she has always been quite good at.

She is also good at imagining. Sometimes, when she shuts her eyes, she can go anywhere. Today, she decides to take a trip to paradise: tide lapping by her toes, salty wind tickling her cheeks. Feet sinking in sticky, razor sand, and waves so loud she can only hear the roar and nothing else.

When her mother leaves the office, she gives her a cold, blank stare before walking off. As if she didn’t recognize her at all.

There is a new neighbour. Her mother did not inform her, but she had pressed her ear against the right part of the door to hear her mother’s phone calls.

“Yes, that’s right. No, my daughter is…different. Already thirteen, yes…very strange. Really, you’ve got one too? I’m so sorry…”

Later, she met him. Dark hair, dark eyes, and hunched shoulders — if she didn’t know any better, she would think he also drowned out the world.

He told her his name was Theros.

She laughed, eyes creasing. Her name, she replied, was Summer.

Many winters later, Theros would tell Summer he didn’t drown out the world; instead, he burned the voices with flames he stole from the horizon.

Many years later, Summer would learn to open her heart again.

And one night, she would dream of music.