She is an open book.
There is a golden girl with silver dapples of sunlight. She wafts in on an early summer breeze while the scent of spring lingers in her milk-black hair. It’s like watching a haunted ballet. Each step she takes is soft and deliberate; each mark she makes is a ghostly kiss on the earth. She takes a swallowing breath of warm cotton air and lets the grass lick her hocks, losing herself in the spirit of the season and the open rollicking expanse of the shimmering meadow. She closes her eyes. She breathes. She becomes a ghost across the plain. She lets her soul fly.
The girl was troubled, the girl is troubled, the girl can’t find her tense. She is born from a long line of mental instability, she is born of fire and blood and fight, she is free from it. Her name is Centralia, she is hollow and full. Her skin is taught across her bones, hugging her ribs too tight, making her look frail but she doesn’t seem to mind. It doesn’t seem to concern the girl at all. The little buckskin girl, lost in the middle of the meadow but found. She has dragonflies for eyes and she stands in the sunlight dreaming of things beyond herself.
She waits for nothing, nothing waits for her. The late spring eddies about her, creates a currant around her golden skin. She is lost in the windy rip-tide.
She is an open palm.
centralia
Dodge x Glenna