I cry rainbows at night when I think no-one else is near. Flower skeletons decay even more in my mind and silhouettes of birds turn out to be no more than shaped words. Carefully chosen, trimmed to perfection like a prize bonsai tree. My wings have been clipped. I’ve been pressed against pages leaving only an imprint behind. I am not myself. I am the person someone else wants to see.
A rabbit with eyes wide and bright
with the light from the car’s full beam
scampers off just as the wheels screech.
Daffodils rise up at the pound of its paws,
followed by crocuses, tulips, hyacinths, nerines,
budding and dying just as quick. A few
fading petals and a dusting of pollen
the only trace.
Heavy boots race up the path the rabbit has taken,
no flowers rise. No flowers bloom. No flowers die.
And the rabbit is gone, buried beneath the snow
to stay warm, away from the sprinklers
that spread summer’s mirage.
Above ground is cold, just as it always is.
Just as winter is.
Dissolving before my eyes –
rust coloured buildings and high towers.
Even that felt wrong,
shattering apart on impact,
a shock. Ice cold.
Strings of panicked curses.
Bone-cracking force, a red line across my palm.
I had very little choice.
As the weightless wings brush my face,
fluttering against my vision,
I feel the path open up again.
A shallow wave licks my ankles
and fills the rock pools
with miniature lifeforms
that have no idea I’m here.
Like full lips parting
the wave draws back.
My feet follow,
ignoring the jagged rocks
that threaten to pierce the skin.
In the distance,
I see the family beckon to me,
holding out their hands for me to grasp.
But I’m bodiless,
my grip lost
to the horizon.
I must turn away.