SUNFLOWER
she sews her skin up when she's wounded, because bandaids don't hold in stuffing for very long. the pain is white-hot for hours, but she bears it, because it beats the black-cold that otherwise consumes her.
often, i wake in the real early morning to quiet weeping from beyond the walls. when that happens, i tiptoe sleepily out to the meadow to try and comfort her. it never works. you can't be comforted when you sleep standing up, she'll say of it the next day; and so i simply listen to her cries, thinking that one can never know the catastrophe left in a dream's wake.
[one night, i caught her mumbling to herself. don't wanna be a scarecrow any longer. wanna be with the sunflowers. i propped her straw hat up and choked back a sob of my own.]
