The Person I Wanted To Be
Sometimes, you are one thing, and then you are another
I dreamed of marigolds. A row of them standing in barren black soil, all lush green leaves and red and gold and more alive than most people will ever be, maybe more alive than I have been and I pulled them out.
One by one. Ripped them from black earth while roots shrieked and clung and threw them on the compost heap to die but they didn’t die, they bled.
Dark red and viscous, pooling on black soil that couldn’t drink fast enough and crouching in the dirt I gather up blood and clay and magic and watch as a golem takes shape under my hands, rough and crude and alive.
She stands slowly. Less standing and more uncurling, unfurling until she towers above. Me. Splayed down there across black earth, mud streaking my face, eyes wide, mouth gaping at this wild thing my hands made.
And then she ran. Giant leaping steps on clay feet, mud hair streaming behind and I scramble up to follow, running, heart pounding as I try to keep up, the dirt of her flesh still black and wet on my hands.
I am running, running, afraid to lose sight of her, breathing, chest heaving and as I run I feel the mud drying on my fingers and I know. I am her and she is me and I know. I have never been as alive as I am…
