She tiptoes on broken memories, but laughs when she almosts falls through them. A game of the most precarious balance but the reaching swamp of ink doesn’t quite scare her anymore.
It looks like she’s been playing in the mud, and maybe she’ll tell you she has, but if you look closer you’ll see the whispers of tears, of scars, of fears. It brushes off like dust but it dulls her skin wherever it touches.
Sometimes she carries the wind on her laugh and it helps keep her from touching the ground, so she laughs when at all possible.
In the stillness, though, that’s when she sinks a little further down into the quicksand ink that is so ravenous to swallow her whole. There is no wind to keep her high, there is nothing to hold onto to fish her out.
Sometimes, it’s not so easy to pull herself up out of the gaping hole. Sometimes, she doesn’t know if she even wants to.