In A Past Life I Was

I hold my past in my droughted palms. Tornado sirens ringing outside my windows, white framed— signaling to keep us safe. In this life I was a girl. Blonde haired and blue eyed. A bull trapped within a confined pen. Red flags blinding me look like silhouettes of twisters— Dorothy would’ve loved this. Matches with complementary colors shine beneath my stairs. Childhood shrinks in the divots of my personal desert. Whispers warn me— close your eyes as we shift within your skin. In this life I was afraid of my body. My mind. Twisters as sparse as a cheeky grin. Eyes refusing to shine at the sight of red— this is pain I have decided. My windows, white framed, located ten miles south now. I watch from afar as my pen expands. A bull— though I am starving for a flag which I refuse to set my sights upon. Blowing warmth into my palms to keep this child safe. They do not know my skin will heal in time. Dirt turns to droplets— watching them deliquesce— I look this time— she did not warn me. No more twisters. No more flags. In this life I am searching. My windows are light-stained wood and they do not shine unto my pillows. A missing silhouette, two now, one comes back. We are unhappy in our crowded pen. Our minds brawl like a drunken pair of men below my balcony. I tell Dorothy I would summon her favorite disaster to watch her teeth glare upon my eyes. She tells me my palms will soon be a rainforest. Reminding me to water my plants— they are green— I know what red means to you. In this life I am centimeters away from freedom. I can smell the plains. Pond water and rainbow fish— my windows are black now. The sun wakes me each morning and I have not heard the sirens in years. One silhouette joins me down the street now. I look to my palms and watch as my matches dwindle— ink on wood cannot keep my mind at ease much longer. In my next life I will grow accustomed to solitude. Red will not cause fear and my pen will be small but it will feel like home. I will hold my past in my pond-watered palms.

— ODH