she breathes in words that fill her lungs with
magic and hope so her ribcage is close to
breaking, but her heart is forever warm.
it’s like the gods put stars in her eyes and
the angels inked their soft whispers onto
like constellations traced out into a
her fingers are crafted from dust into
a forest of secrets made from the
sorrows and joys of those around her.
hollowed flesh, torn down walls, and she
is brimming with daisies and dandelions
and an endless ocean that spreads out like
a blanket across hopes and dreams and
undone hair, opened palms, and she
is cheap perfume, bar soap and
a broken violin, merely a distant echo of
melody playing into the ambience
of the afternoon.
she is warm like the sun that just about touches
your cheeks with a flush.
she is gentle like the brush of wind against
she is strong like a storm during a cold
she is everything in the world strung together
with words and fullstops and the carve of her
she is life.
she is poetry.