bravely fragile
Sometimes it’s like the dust of butterfly wings, melting sugar, dark soil and the hollow bones of birds.
Sometimes I’m so empty — so light and thin and numb, fading — that the sight of twilight fills me with dread, a certain loss, a flutter of my lashes as my eyes lower and beg the dark to stay away, to hold off, to relent in drowning me in all of its stickiness because I can’t take it.
Sometimes I’m the crash of breaking glass, the tremble of lips held together under the spray of a shower.
Sometimes I’m a stuttered inhale, of thin fingers curled into a pillow, of weak, aching knees and going in circles within my own head stained through with convenience-store fluorescents, spine bowed.
Sometimes I’m dark hair scraped back, violet circles under eyes and bloodstains and sinking firmly into the springs of a mattress.
But sometimes…
Sometimes it’s like crystal, marble, fire and the distant burn of the stars.
Sometimes I’m so anchored — so tall and towering and unafraid, blazing — that the sight of storm clouds fills me with excitement, a challenge, a tilt of my chin that begs the rain to come harder, faster, to drown me in all of its glory because I can take it.
Sometimes I’m the hiss and spark of a matchstick in a crepuscular night, the oily smudge of bloodied lipstick on the corner of a napkin.
Sometimes I’m a flash of bared teeth, of fingernail imprints in soft palms, of legs stretched out over a mattress and driving down a road melting under the yolk-yellow of streetlights, windows down.
Sometimes I’m long hair flying in the wind, dark eyes and coffee stains and boots planted firmly on concrete.
And sometimes… sometimes I am everything, all at once and completely.