“I want to take green into my mouth and tuck it in my cheeks. Like candy.
Like acorns that will sprout between my teeth. Look at my smile! Look at my tongue!
Lapping at water between clouds, between fingers. Slurping.
Into root-straws wrapped around my spine. Like bows on present, except if you unwrap it I might die.
Presents are secrets until they are open, then they are only murmurs of what they were. Secrets are meant to be kept.
Feathery, leafy hair growing down my back. No scissors for you. No trimming in the night.
Feet in the ground, rocks are sharp against toes.
but rocks are the oldest friends, and the most trustworthy allies.
they know, they know.
That I am the giant under the mountain.
And that things that grow will never die, if there are spaces between our veins to breathe.”—End of March