By guest writer Pascale Presumey
DREAM: shed skin.
Serpentesque visions of who she should be now. Now that he was not the charmer anymore, her basket exploded into a star-speckled universe. She could be all. She could be everywhere.
Then night came and things grew shadows.
She was lost in a forest of tall what-ifs and buts, everything she touched prickly or sticky. Her words did not echo, instead were muffled by ferns.
She curled up, tucked inside moss and mud, under maybes. Waited for morning.
Maybe light would come back and fill her eyes again, and the sun’s warmth move her blood.
©Pascale Presumey 2016