TheFeatheredSleep give a kaleidoscopic portrait of one afraid.
She was not a hunter
She did not compete
There were no hands on the tinder clocks, rebinding feats.
When it rained, she stayed dry
Her hearth and rug, small morsels of comfort clutched
For not venturing out, salved potential for harm.
She grew up on the black hard bread of fear
Of the river breaking its banks and drowning
Those she loved
It was an inherited sense of loss
Passed down through heavy curtains, generations of individuals, feeling cast off
All the instability of fine china, balancing, teetering, turning to shattered lotuses.
She saw what happened when they lied and said she was safe
She could feel the pink welts, smell the violation, as it poured down the road, a torrent of what humanity can do
To a child.
She grew scars as self armor
Moved further to the fireplace to touch the source of its continual scald
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