by Belle Campbell
soft, misshapen head bruised by your ego. her pockets sagging with the weight of your ham-fisted denial. you can never lie to her, still sleep like her. afraid of the dark, blindly groping the edges of this feeling, indecipherable layers of fear. the beak of lip and swell of cheek. the spring of womb and nameless longing. she looks at the moon and sees the rabbits, collects rainbows in glass and secrets in a box under her bed. she remembers, even if you forget. unafraid to put lips and teeth to the hum of a heart, she will make you remember why the sky is blue, why aeroplanes can fly, and how you need to be held. like that, not like this. I have more to say, but I will let her say it now. Trust me.