Blackfoot Forest sound is faster in water than in air

shirin lingers at the edge of the forest and her afterimage clings to her like loose sleeves.

she trembles, and so do the stars, which dance in bosonic streaks and arcs, skittering like brilliant hailstones off the leading edge of a wing, down tapered ailerons..

ah! she wrests control of herself. stay awake!

the moon is an embouchure of a madwoman, as bright as teeth. awful, awful to look at.

the rest of the world carries on around her, unknowing or uncaring. or both, she thinks, and grabs at the emptiness in her torso, wonders at how her fist fits beautifully in the hollow just beneath her sternum, as if made for it. 

failed sister, failed woman, failed wolf. she bites down on her tongue but cannot even bring herself to break the skin. she moves on.