A memory of a girl.

A memory of a girl.

Can you understand, on the days I am wet sand wrapped in paper.
That some days the lava boils my veins as I press ice against my burning body in vain.
That the sound of metal wire travels up and down my arm in musical numbness.
That some days I am a barely contained storm crackling, hot and white around me.
Then there is the fog.
A limbic dream of awareness, thoughts ringing and glowing but obscured.
Or when the wave takes me.
When I am suddenly pushed into an umbral world.
I become a ghost, unable to speak, barely able to move.
Some days I am ordinary but sore and tired as though I danced all night in someone else's shoes.
Yet mostly I am some supernatural creature.
A ghost.
A storm.
A memory of a girl dancing.