St𝓪r

As the shivering rain freezes over my veins, I can still hear each drop screaming your name. I graze the grass beneath me hoping it don't touch my soul and feel the colors of it, because every color is meant for you, every blue I see reminisces the blue polish you wore once, every green is for the calmness I felt before it all washed over me, every red is for the realization that you'll never be mine, every gray is for how I feel at night, every black is for the shell you left me as, once I step off the grass it wilts, flowers die when they hear my walk, birds scream, beetles crawl, they remember me. They remember how happy I was, how bright my soul was. My knuckles freeze over as I write this, the words flow from my brain, but my fingers can't fathom them. Fireflies stare at my sparkling eyes. They used to glow with joy, but now they glow with tears. My joy died along with extinct fireflies. My fingers get tangled in vivid green moss like they used to get tangled in your hair. I'm still the ingénue who sings eulogies to you, only now do I have blackbirds and mocking jays to listen to me. I caress mighty walnut trees with a touch as full of love as I had while my hands felt your soft cheeks. I scrutinize every word you say hoping for a familiar whistle, familiar lullaby. I listen to the screams of an albatross hoping it's you back for me. I'll pick up every insect wishing you're it. Butterflies land on my maroon hair and if I close my eyes just for a second, it feels like you. No matter how much I claw at the soaked dirt, my scraped bare knees bleeding into the plants, the worms underneath my fingertips won't turn into you. Blood will seep down into the soil. As the small sapling swallows it up, will the tree grow to be you? I'll soar over the mountains like an eagle, I'll swim across the ocean like a dolphin, I'll suck pollen out of flowers just how bees do, but at the end of the day as the moss grows through my hands, I'll still know I can't be him.

Where there was once the faint, sweet scent of milk and damp fur, there was now a heavy, metallic announcement. The crowd of the forest, the insects, the unseen worms, the magpies and crows sensed the shift in status faster than the eye could register it. The fawn was no longer a creature to be avoided; it was a delivery. But the mother would not move. She stood beside the still fawn. Her muzzle nudged the pale, unresponsive hide, a silent desperate plea. When she finally backed away, it wasn't a retreat but an exile, leaving her own scent of grief pressed into the blood-dampened moss.

The tree frog dies unnoticed, no one mourns it. It's a tiny body, bones, fragile skin, so soft and so innocent. Even the smallest creatures deserve dignity in death, but the world moves on; no one bats an eye, no one cares enough to notice its lifeless body, eyes so full of life, yet its body is limp, its soul left wandering. It would be so different if it were a kid, wouldn't it? A beautiful funeral, flowers lining the coffin, tears spilled on behalf of a lost soul, shaking hands, and broken hearts. But now instead of grieving visitors, only the ants arrive like they always do, silent and uncaring. They didn't ask if it had a name. They didn't wonder if it had dreams. To them, it was only a piece of meat, tomorrow's dinner, a task to complete. One ant tugged at its leg like it was a rope. Another disappeared into the soft part beneath its jaw. They worked tirelessly, as if kindness had never existed in their world. Slowly eating away at its mortal remains. In a day the body will disappear, the memories will be forgotten, and its part in society will be replaced. The ants did not whisper prayers. They did not close their eyes. They only saw pieces, not the whole. While the ants carry it away, what would a funeral look like? Who would speak? Who would cry? The frog’s limp body isn’t buried, it isn’t remembered. Instead, it’s devoured bit by bit, with no final rest or peaceful afterlife. No flowers lining its marble grave, no visitors. Maybe it's babies trying to find the body only to be met with the scene of a lifeless carcass slowly disappearing. What could they do other than watch? Even the tiniest life had a heart, dreams, instincts, and a rhythm. There's sadness in how we assign value based on size or presence.Without burial or care, does the tree frog's soul wander? Does it roam the earth hoping for a place to finally rest?  Once the ants take its body away, it'll be forgotten; the world will move on, the wind will keep flowing the same, and the leaves will stay the same green they've always had. Once a human dies, they host a funeral; they grieve; they cry. But after a few years everything is forgotten. No one visits the grave anymore. No one cuts the weeds that take over the beautiful stone. So does it really matter who gets a grave? After all, we'll be forgotten.

No matter how much my ribs stick out, I'll always be the chubby one. My body can be perceived as sickly, my bones countable to the naked eye, each step makes them snap and groan, my skin as pale as snowflakes in a cold winter evening, my body will shiver at a slight gust of wind, clumps of hair left in my hands, my collarbones jutted like the edges of a broken plate, sharp enough to cut through the fabric of my shirt, I look as if death knocked on my window and I'll need more. Blue veins like cracks in ice. I yearn to be prodigious even if it ends with me digging an early grave. There are times when I truly believe I've achieved it. I'm perfect now, but the more I stare at myself the more I realize it's not enough. I feel perfect before I just feel empty. The grandmas who whisper quiet insults, the aunts who pinch my stomach, the friends who ask if I've let myself gain weight, all tattooed at the back of my head. Will the worms that sliver through my decomposing ribs know that I was skinny? It's not a simple wish, a small want, it's an ineffable craving. I won't be the willowy girl everyone likes, even if I am, it's not enough. I can be better. I insist on being thinner. Each stair is a battlefield to die on. The girl in the mirror isn't sick, she isn't appealing, she isn't pernicious to herself, her hands don't tremble at the weight of a feather, a flight of stairs doesn't exhaust her, she's impulsive, she's disgusting, a wolf in sheep's clothing. She's a victim and a predator. The wolf loses control, tearing the sheep into pieces while it lets everything go. If she's struggling this much, shouldn't she look it? Her breath came in shallow gasps, like a moth trapped in a jar. The reflecting glass before her breaks in shame. The pieces cut her skin. Her breath fogs up the sharp pieces. She silently wishes the shards would cut her into a perfect body, narrow enough so the ants that slowly eat at her coffin will be proud. Will the quick insects like how she looks? What if they judge her? Or worse, what if they think she's too disgusting to be decomposed. The days can pass, but the image in the mirror will never change, only her health and weight will die down.