she is a bit too fond of me.
she will stick to me like wet leaves after a cloudburst.
she will suffocate me, like death is clinging to my cranium, making a nest beneath my flesh.
it does not make me want to hide, to hide means to conceal yourself from plain sight. what i want is to be away. somewhere where i can breathe and fall and not fret of hitting the earth. that is ok.
because though strangers and lovelies tell me she is no good, an unlucky penny, a cursed birth, a home with death in it.
that is ok.
she traps me in a divine forest, binded by my thoughts, so when she lets me go... i will stay.
she has made it so she is the definition of familiar.
my familiar has grown to be different from the kind of the store-bought pots.
she has made it so she is my favorite colors in the sky.
she has made it so she is the door i wish to walk through.
she has made it so she is unsaid words and written poems.
she has made it so i am a bit fond of her.