Woman Made of Flowers
Would you rather be made of light but not be able to touch anyone, or be made of flowers but not be able to speak? —Julia
It was deep blue, very blue—there were prickles of sound and nudges of wind, but the fact was, I was born and there was little to see. I turned my arm and I was all vines and blossom, twining tendrils of firm, delicate plant. It would make no sense to say it all now, the way it seemed then: I was not one shape, but many; I was blossom after blossom, all piles and waves of petal and leaf and thorn, and inside, hairy root; a curving scape of hills and valleys, inside; and also the shape of a human woman.