Ever met this girl?

You can have my lollipop. Don’t cry anymore.

She walks on paths that are almost transparent but for a bluish tinge, baby waves reaching up and grazing their fingers across her soles. Oh don’t be fooled, what they hold isn’t quite as gentle – spikes and thorns and glass pieces that really shouldn’t be in the waters but human beings throw them in anyway because they’re not wanted. And human beings are cruel that way (but she’s human too, you say) so if you’re not wanted it doesn’t matter who you are or what you are because simply put, human beings don’t give a flying about unimportant things.

Does it really matter, that I’m not pretty?

So they send them beasts after her and she thinks they’re friends because they seem so lost and vulnerable in the open skies, well she’s an idiot no doubt (for that split second at least) to trust them just because they seem as though they’re on the same boat as her. Or perhaps they were, until they wrecked that pathetic piece of wood and took off on their wings. Need I say without her?

I made friends today. Do you know where they’ve gone?

It’s a wonder how she did it but a while later she’s standing above the waves again (with the spikes and thorns and glass pieces still cutting), standing tall, standing strong. She did try to appear strong, you see. Then the loud cries overhead intrude (seagulls, she knows) into her thin, thin envelope and it rips, paper bubble swearing paper cuts.

Oh, you came back.

And now they’re screaming bloody murder in her ear – she starts and the tendrils loosen for a bit, but it’s enough. Two milliseconds is long enough, and she tumbles. Grabbing at their wings and one of them seems to take pity on her, offers a feather, and my what a horribly good laugh they had (I do hope their sides split) at the drab clutching onto a goddamn feather.

Help me, please. Thank you.

Waking up, is to cotton waters her skin and (barely there) bobbing that carries her light, so very light body and she nearly, very nearly gives in to the tempting mantra because she’s floating and wow damn she’s finally floating and not helping others to float while she sinks like a dead weight (well that’s funny because dead fishies float but if that’s the case I suppose she’s far worse off than a poor weetle dead fishie).

I’m tired. Can I go to sleep?

Stealthily come long rotten limbs that wrap around her torso and she jolts awake realising they won’t let her drift any longer. She struggles, yanking those wretched warm chains away and panic gives her strength to tear them apart – ridiculously brittle they seemed for a second. But splitting the chains multiplies their numbers, and soon enough there are millions strangling her ankles, locking her within the depths. The crack in the waters seals over her head and if they were at the shore they might’ve seen little air bubbles breaking the surface (if they’d listened they might’ve heard the feeble pleas across the winds but they didn’t).

Hey, don’t cry.

If they’d stayed they would’ve seen her rising up again to fall nevermore, but it remained only a secret because human beings are afraid of miracles they don’t want to see. She walks on little wisps of white now, waltzing high above the raging blues and beyond the palms of dirt. Dancing in her meadow that hurt cannot reach. Running towards everlasting golden hues and bathing in the warmth where hidden chills never linger.

I’m happy.