She rises from the surface in outline alone, a constellation of black lines holding her shape where colour has scattered. Around her, the self has come apart in fragments: a pool of gold for the laughter, deep burgundy for the ache, misted sage for the quiet afternoons, blush pink for tenderness, grey where the storms passed through. Each colour is a piece, a memory, a version, a day she was someone slightly different.
Nothing is seamless. The fragments don't fit; they bleed into one another like watercoluor thought, like the way we are never one thing at a time. The black contour lines don't contain her so much as remember her, tracing who she was while the colours keep becoming.
She is whole not because she is unbroken, but because every shard chose to stay near the light.
That's the meaning of her: a self made of fragments, still shining.
She rises from the surface in outline alone, a constellation of black lines holding her shape where colour has scattered. Around her, the self has come apart in fragments: a pool of gold for the laughter, deep burgundy for the ache, misted sage for the quiet afternoons, blush pink for tenderness, grey where the storms passed through. Each colour is a piece, a memory, a version, a day she was someone slightly different.
Nothing is seamless. The fragments don't fit; they bleed into one another like watercoluor thought, like the way we are never one thing at a time. The black contour lines don't contain her so much as remember her, tracing who she was while the colours keep becoming.
She is whole not because she is unbroken, but because every shard chose to stay near the light.
That's the meaning of her: a self made of fragments, still shining.
