Her angular days have struck nothing but the essence of a moon buried in the clouds. She cannot move without the light and the light has been conserved in another dome—one that does not intersect with hers. She feels the sleepiness of her serotonin and the flowers that once filled her field, but continues to trudge through the uncertainty of stark black.

The night scrapes deep into her body and reminds her of the things that she has turned into mistakes. She envies the night’s remarks of boldness but despises the sheer lack of warmth it provides her with. She masks her incessant aches with falsely green ferns and mitigates the gravity of her state—the state that she has lived within for seasons—by virtue of her internal battles continuing upon every hill she reaches. 

She feels neglected by the sun and the stars and assumes that the earth below her will consume her being—but she remains with the shriveled petals and stems in her fingertips. 

Her footsteps imprinted blindly in the wind and deliver her to sweet briar in the dark’s crest and scratch her surface. The angry thorns unleash their scathing screams upon her skin and push her to an edge—an edge that she cannot grasp onto. She is now just a body in the sky.

But in this moment, her elongated exposition of wounds that cling to her exterior are now in unison with the atmosphere; a balance of beings in a plane of existence. Then, she shatters the facade of a pool directly beneath her and submerges into the navy blue expanse.

Her reaction is numbed, but she is not afraid; she realizes that this is what she needed—a rude awakening, a sea of deliberate impulse. Her flowers longed for this nourishment to replenish their petals and stems to grow into the bleeding hearts and foxgloves they were meant to be. Her wounds called for sanitization and her thoughts needed a wave of shivering water to cleanse them of angst. What she needs is not what she expects, but it opens the light from within her.

The moon, after all, was not suffocated by the foggy night, but was clandestine in her ribcage. It is the light within her that propels her to a summit of bounty, not the light administered by the empyreans.

The glow from her bones and her touch are here to accompany her and assist her wildflower-will. She is surrounded by a globe of manic treasures and worldly objects and finds a fresh standing in her own feet planted in the earth.

Despite her inevitable conflicts in this ongoing clash of winds in the world, she is ready to wipe her slate clean. She can now understand that her flowers need watering and that she is her own luminescence.