I. distant; she is daughter of sky and stars, buries her love in oceans with waves that tumble but cannot burst; leaves a wake of supernovaI. distant; she is daughter of sky and stars, buries her love in oceans with waves that tumble but cannot burst; leaves a wake of supernova she is 8 years old the first time they tell her she is broken—unworthy for their hands to touch; falls through constellations but cannot land, desperate to know the feeling of grass, of earth
II. aching; she knows hurt only when she lands, crashes from plato’s cave, her knees hit the ground, built to shatter; they say trauma is residue for what you should not have survived—some days, she wakes up and can’t remember if she did
III. burning; she is broken only in her anger; they watch as it lingers against the chipping wallpaper of her bedroom; her fire the one thing that grows but does not give life— she gives life. i watch her at a distance, too much for my still fragile hands; it’s only when we kiss that their hatred melts against our grins and smoke has never felt so holy
IV. soft; she tells me i taste like dusk, blue caught between silhouettes, a foil to all the shadows the world has shown her; i love the roses on her tongue—sharp only when you dig too deep; i love her hair—not golden but singed, eyes that consume but cannot destroy, how she does not smile: she grins
V. divine
