She woke up to misty wreaths of sad songs in her head.
So this was resurrection.
Being reborn to anger, frustration, fear and hatred.
Every morning.
Every day.
Every night…
The ruins of the monastery were still around her, the inertia of growing moss keeping the remnants of life together. Melting ice met rotting ferns in secret confrontation as she rolled slowly onto her side, the edge of reason. The ferns began to dance. The song of decay played over again in her head.
Good morning madness.

There was a crown on the horizon.
If God could only have known what lands were ruled by the insubstantial dividing line between what is and what is not.
There was a syringe wedged between the earth and the sky.
A tree root pinned it down.

How many times had she rolled to the rhythm of a song no one heard? How many days had she seen where no one turned…
She moaned silence and cried clouds;
the vomit of her dreams was the shadowy emptiness between the trees.

Sometimes the stars got lost between the endless expanses of grass straws. But she couldn’t see them now; they had only fallen out of the sky last night. They had trickled through the foliage and slid down the tree trunks of shadow and water. But ToDay was green and grey.
The clouds in the sky longed for an ocean out of reach.

She couldn’t get up. She would, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t be walking; it would be aimless floating in a world without a name. Her mind was a curled up lump of mass inside her head, alienated from her body. Stars crawled like ants between the upper layers of her transparent skin.
Perhaps, if it rained, she would melt.

Yesterdays and tomorrows fused to make a hazy today. Sometimes she saw blue fire in the sky as a wasp walked across her tainted lips, on her dry tongue; airing its buzzing wings.
Her throat expected the crawling tingle of the flying insect.
Her arms were numb.
Blue fire licked across her lips. Her blood was dead in her veins, yet in her eyes it pounded dryly, fiercely.
Trickles of dry and crisp blood caked her white arms. The wasp had found some at the edge of her mouth as well. Its tiny feet pricked its weight into her skin and it spread across her cheek.
Her eye began to water; a drop fell out of the sky.

Fat droplets exploded across her body. Across her dissolving clothes.
Beating her eyelids, sending happy coloured doomsday messages like fleeting butterflies behind her eyes. But they were slowly swallowed by her stagnant bloodstream, thick as mud and the words we never speak.
There was air between her skin and her flesh.
Her mind began to smell of earth.

Her eyes opened and sucked the world in. they were like crushed flowers frozen in bruises. If only she had been kissed one last time. The wasp flew in a circle and grazed her coated palate. She could taste its flight. Her heart stood still. The wind couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

It wouldn’t if it could.

The ground had softly yielded beneath her weight, opening slowly to swallow her into the closing darkness of a sin, sticky and hard like the smacking of lips. She would be chewed by the demons trapped in writhing plant roots, by the devils wrapped around deformed rocks.
Blue fire, like writing, spread across the sky.

Redemption was like a soft piece of fluff in a storm.
Unwanted.

The wasp flew and sat on her iris. It stung as she closed her eyes. she couldn’t see the blue fire and her stomach turned in on itself. Another world was lost to the morning.

Wolves drank in the corner of her closed eyes. tongues of cloth had been wrapped around your body. The material had been unfaithful and she had cried. Wet eyes on your skirt.
Wet eyes on you.
Always.
The soft stain spread like blue fire.
Her bruises were yours and she longed.

Her vagina felt like it had been ravaged by moths. Beaten and bruised by the soft wings of decay. The earth between her bare legs smelled of dewy morning and night time death. The world around was silent.
The world around was screaming.

Screaming Blue Fire.