{l a u g h} until our |ribs| get tired [KITTY]

You blink hopelessly into the sky, watching as clouds roll by, whispering in that poetic way you always do, about each of the shapes you see in the sky. Your words aren't directed in any specific direction but if one were to watch you long enough, to listen long enough to hear your entire story from start to finish, they might want to know you. Innocence drips from your lips, from your palms, from every hair upon your head - (Do you hear the other eighteen year olds laughing at you child?) Everyone thinks that you are crazy. Everyone says that you were dropped on your head as a child. But you don't hear them. You are too busy braiding your hair, reading through the same book for the fifth time, or chasing after butterflies that dance along on the wind in the meadows. You should ache for a friend, but instead you only yearn to hold your mother's hand again and catch a falling star so you can keep it in your pocket and hold onto the tiny piece of your mother fallen from heaven.

Your limbs are nimble as you twirl and twist across your bedroom, the only bit of light coming through the tiny, circle window. Your feet are bare, just as you like them, and I can tell from the wide smile on your face that you are going out. You know it is safe now that your father has stumbled out the door, dandelion seeds dancing at his ankles as he tramples over the flowers carelessly. Once you tried to tell him that they were magic, that he should gather the seeds up in his hands and blow them into the air upon the hill and make a wish, but his fist only collided with your cheek that much harder than normal. "Stupid bitch!" he bellowed, his eyes blazing with a sort of fury that only arises when pure hatred lives in someone's heart. You cry, but you don't hate him. You love him. But you know by now that keeping quiet keeps you from getting purple bruises on your cheeks. So you stay silent, your tales of fairies and angels and magic wound up inside you, waiting to burst free.

I guess that is why you are whispering to yourself now, trying to get the stories sorted within your head, asking yourself if maybe that this time your storybook will end differently than before. Your lips move ("And the princess lives / Jades and jewels placed upon her / Beautiful is she.") and the small whispers escape into the empty room, bouncing off the mason jars filled with rainwater and the thin wooden walls. You grab a mason jar a place it in your satchel because you refuse to drink any water but angel's tears before gingerly placing a few books within the worn leather, your pink net for catching butterflies, a silver spoon you found buried in the Earth a few days ago, and an entire mason jar filled with dandelion seeds, leaves, and flower petals. Before you leave the room you bend to kiss the old tattered picture of your sister mother, and grab a jacket from a hook made of an old tree branch near your door.

You dance down the stairs, twirl down the hallways, giggle with pure delight as your run your hands over the walls and dream of becoming a princess one day, crowned for all of Panem to see. (Do you understand you have to kill for that crown child?) You wonder though if you could ever be as pretty as the princesses you see on the small box you call a television in the living room. ("Shimmering and bright / The Opal smiles, satin skin / How can I compare?") and ("The Cricket leaps high / The world stares in awe at her / I am but a roach.") are the words that you whisper to yourself as you question if that shiny crown should really be placed upon your head. But your head is filled withe these dreams and you wish upon stars for miracles. You bound through the doorway, closing the door gently behind you out of habit. And then you are soaring, arms outstretched, as you race for the empty meadow where you are sure that the fairies await and the angels are soaring above and the breeze waits to blow through your hair.

The cold air makes your cheeks flush red and I can see you shiver every so often as the chill of the fall air seeps its way past the thin sweater you wear in an attempt to combat the cold. As you slow down and your arms fall across your chest, folded as you smile and catch your breath, your hair falls in bouncy curls on your shoulders and the world seems to hush for a moment as it your heart beat floats through the air. (Can you hear it? The pureness that calls from the rapid thump, thump of your heart? Can you feel how disarming it is?) You pull in a deep breath, the overcast sky not dampening your spirit but instead fueling your bare feet to continue forward to the top of the large hill. The grass sways and the rise and fall of your chest begins to slow as your heart rate settles. You reach into your bag as you reach the top of the hill, pulling out the jar of fluffy dandelion seeds. That's when you let the satchel fall from your shoulder and you collapse into the grass, letting the stems caress your legs and tickle your feet and face. And then you reach into your pocket and pull out a handful of sterling silver glitter. You smile before blowing the glitter into the air, letting it fall across your face and into your hair, waiting patiently for the sparkle to kick in.

You twist the top from the jar, setting it atop your chest so that you can reach your delicate hands in and pick out just one, single seed. Holding it tenderly you cup your hands around the tiny piece of fluff and whisper a sweet song to it. And though most would not be able to hear you, you speak it to the tiny little fairy in your hand all the same. You have said before that they love a nice song, that they fly farther on the wind the better you sing to it. ("Dance beautiful soul / Soar to the edge of the Earth / Flutter, flutter, fly.") And then you raise your hands above you and release the tiny seed into the air, letting it dance with the breeze, a love triangle at its peak. And you continue, seed by seed, fairy by fairy, song by sweet song, unaware of the chill in the air, the darker growing sky, and the other girl roaming the hill.