tangled.

The bridges are burned as she blows out the match. The clouds collide while she paints a new picture. The lines become blurred between the skies and the heavens. That inbetween. She knows it's a place.

The sun apppears to greet her. Her eyes aren't blue. They're gray with flecks of navy. She paints her nails purple and watches as they chip. The water laps at her toes. Playing a game. She doesn't feel like playing today.

She never begs for mercy. Or grace. She steals the flowers from along the side of the highway. On certain days she closes her eyes and can feel it. The paper, the canvas, the people...they just don't get it.

She talks to the wind. It carries her stories through the cities and through open windows. She keeps her hopes in a glass bottle. The long neck once held by the alcoholic.

Trying to find her way. That's what some would call it. The rough waters of the seas call it something else. The tattoo on her ankle is tickled by blades of grass. Laughter weaves its way through the cornfields.

Yesterday is a small dot on the map. The X that marks the spot lies in tomorrow. She grabs her rusty shovel and follows the clues.

Orange sunsets cover the town. The dragonflies sleep through the night while the stars set the stage. Her hands can almost reach. Instead, she dips them in the coolness of evening. The crickets, frogs, lightening bugs...they all have their stories. Maybe she'll hear them one day.

The breeze whispers secrets through her tangled hair. The rocks beneath her feet, the heavens above her head, and the world in front of her eyes. This is the life she knows.

Someday. Someday, someone will see. Not tonight. Tonight is for sleep and dreams. Tonight is for the make-believe.