She writes.
But I can’t read it
lost in pitchfork stains and burned-hair ashes
she remains.

With pages of words strangled in the winds of winter
incomplete poems about the glow that disappeared somewhere in the same wind
like an ember in the snow
or a snow crystal in the sun.
Poems that took pages and pages and yet could not describe how the screams in the flame escaped their ears
as if wolves howled into the night but the moon was somehow darkened
or as if blood stains and scars were the evidence that evil hatches between her thighs
or behind her eyes, inside her mind, somewhere in those hollow vessels of wasted waters
that salten into tears and becomes what she all is.

Somewhere in those pages she writes
about the darkness of summer
that hid behind her scarf, got entangled in her hair and whispered into her ears about  forgotten tales of a fairy with golden wings
a fairy who cut her chains with her fingernails
rode the winds with grace
flew high in the sky, escaping the pebbles
but somehow smashed herself in the glass, for everyone to stare at.

And somewhere in those pages she writes
how her respect got strangled in her clothes
and how she would be like a bird who got shamed for breaking off the cage
So she hid herself, never to breathe again.

Because somewhere in those pages she writes
how autumn leaves showed her the way to be free, for once and for all
to be colourful and whimsical, to smile and hustle
to be free like the wind or at least glide in it.
but she had to detach herself from the tree first.

So somewhere in those pages she writes
about herself,
about how she thought it might end
but the pages got lost, torn apart, buried in dust or covered in ashes
but some pages stayed
with forged lines and weary fullstops
for everyone to touch once and then look away.