Writing

The lies are ready on your lips, practiced, you done this a thousand times, but you falter. You falter and shatter the illusion of truth.

Revolutions are bathed in blood,

In death, betrayals, and cruelty.

Yet, we often associate them with freedom,

The oppressed rising against the oppressors.

You trace the ridges of the flower.

The sole daisy in this field.

A dot of yellow against a vibrant green.

Your toes burrow in the dirt.

The soil covering your feet.

At dusk, the city climbs into trees. Streetlights fold into branches; apartments blink like nesting owls. Commuters dangle from vines in tailored suits, sipping moonlight through trembling leaves. You knock on my bark-body, and I let you in.

Rori Acher is eighteen years old and dying. Any licensed medical professional would pronounce her perfectly healthy. But there are many ways to be dying that are not physical. 

What if I never find it?

What if all of this is for nothing?

I've been hurt by caring before.

It's easier not to...but it's been a freedom for me.

I don't want to give that up.

I want to take the next step.