Writing

This road starts but never ends

It has choices but never a decision

This road loves and never hates

It continues and never stops

This road is improvised by all step foot upon it

It inspires and changes

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.