Viscous are her dreams.
Thick and unfulfilled, a creamy texture that slithers down the bent corners of her palm. They settle in her hand, small and wistful pools of accomplishment, but she cannot grasp them.
They are unattainable.
Her fingers do not flex. They unfurl and lay open, exposing her weakness to the glaring sun. Flowers forget to blossom, and she is alone in the middle of a grassy stretch, where the buds of potential nip at her ankles.
She is a beggar. Her palms outstretched, she pleads against the moist soils of the earth. Who she is and who she’s come to be are outrageously different. Who she wants to be is a parallel.
Plumes of sand cloud the sky. Like fireworks, the display startles her into appreciating beauty. Unlike fireworks, the painted image does not disappear but is scarring. Even when the dust falls away and leaves the air misty with grains of sorrow, the moment will be forever.
She imagines a future. And it is a great task for one who lives day-by-day.
Or who lived today.
For tomorrow, she will step on a landmine.
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