she was once an orange flower. those were simpler times. when all there was was love, however unrequited. she grew and bloomed, opened to the sun, died and fell to seed, and grew again. and that's all there was to think about. the only thing that mattered.
this was a time when the words that fell fell on paper. things were created. poetry. pictures. beauty. madness. she could've stayed here forever. but then, she couldn't, could she? the sun was warm, and the rain was cool. that's what she remembers.
she was once a shot of whiskey. liberating, but not quite fascinating. she could fill you up and make you whole, but there was only so much that you could take. one does not, afterall, spend one's entire life drunk.
it took a while for her to realize that. by that time she'd become comfortable again, thought she'd found where she belonged. she was alive, she was the wind, and all she knew was freedom. that was all that mattered. all that she saw. it hurt to go.
now, she is something else. something she doesn't know yet. she's wondering if she'll look back at this the same way someday.
she might be emptiness. she might be the hole in a sock. she might be a puzzle that's always missing a piece. or she might be the piece that you're missing.
whatever the case. there's no more room. for making shit up.
and whatever the case. there's no chance that you could ever harm her.
she's already been born. she's already died. more times than you will ever see.