She dreamed of eery light, of stones bathed in clear water, of translucent wings and bells on the tips of her fingers and toes. And she dreamed of knarled tree roots, rich earth, and thick dark flowers growing strongly from the ground. And darkness and light in this eery half-world. She dreamed and touched and felt and discovered and wandered but, then she would wake and look around her.

And here I am in the room of dirty sheets and spilled coffee. The blinking television screen that never dies, and the smudged gray walls. My lips know how to curve up so I can hide behind them. So I can shield my dark wings. Nobody knows. She is withered and small and looks twice her age. She cries a lot and her raccoon mascara smudged eyes never seem quite there. They are pale grey. Her hair is a poofy dead leaf crown of yellow blond, with long dark roots. Her nightgown is pink and frilly. But on it are ashes of cigarettes and her soul. And sweat stains and foundation smudges and mascara tears cover her in a pathwork of runiation, sadness and her broken wings. I am spending my energy pretending and shielding. While rich dark flowers grow inside me outside I am a blank whitewashed wall. And I can easily fool others. I am a prism but unless light shines through me you cannot see my rainbows. And darkness is where I stay. Shadows are good for keeping secrets. And I am my biggest secret of all.