Her hands are long,

calloused and inviting.

Scars tell stories,
across her knuckles.

She has one hand cradled in the other, 
tapping and rubbing 
her palm 
with her fingers.

Her mind is a jungle: 
heavy, sticky, lush,
challenging to navigate,
surrounded by undecayed green 
and unobstructed sea.

“Are you anxious?”
Her hands are moving rapidly, 
yellow parrotbills 
flitting in and out of the tall tree trunks
and violet, epiphytic orchids of her mind.

Turning to face me, 
she stretches her lips into a smile.
She assures me that she is fine,
but she doesn’t see any birds.

And the violet orchids of her mind


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