Sometimes she forgets that she's safe here. Sometimes the sky will turn clouded and bleak, sky-diving clouds hurtling past, working their own pace through her mind; like hurricanes, she whispers. Sometimes, there is no sky, no drifting sheep and no clearing moon out in the open day. There is nothing but the moment a single, bright butterfly pauses to sleep in the sun hitting the windowsill. In the background, like this morning, Kate will be singing about coral reefs and dreams of hunting sleep in an inverse heaven, mirrored by thousand little fireflies along the surface of my empty ocean.
Sometimes, I forget.

Forget about the days when I was drowning in my own storms, all the hurricanes out to get me; the water was only rising, only levelling my head with stones and rocks. And broken bones. And Kate whispers; what do you feel?

The butterfly is still there, like a patient muse waiting for me to finish. I believe I own the world recognition, assertion, the trust of a friendly bond; that I show my approval. Gratitude is never the word of the willing, the courageous or daring. But my soul whispers through the curtains of my eyes; I'm not strong enough yet. So I wish I were a plant in this garden, a flower in this house, a piece of wood, carved beautifully by my father's eyes, peaceful old hands building my shoulders, building these bird bones into a puzzle, whispering words of belief and trust. All until my heart wakens. All until my heart burns with life; fire ignited by blood.

And I forget the simple expressions, the silly tiny little thank you that owes so much more to itself than a silent plea for help, spelled blindly by the nothing. The emptiness that always comes crawling back, the disease of emotional breakdown; for no apparent reasons. And my eyelids flash past the knowledge, the living breathing knowledge that yes, there is choice. There is but a dream to be dreamt, distinct memories, rising and falling like waves. Washing against the bottom of my ocean, smoothing the sand, the corals and the dead. And maybe the bones of a little bird, dreaming of flight.

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