There is a small wandering city that is lost inside your head. It is full of a new type of blood pumping trees. The old trees were sick of being old trees so they outgrew photosynthesis and made roots inside your rivers. Now they grow thoughts out of you that brush against the soft walls of your skull. Wish, wish, wish they call against your ears until you stop to listen and call it blood rush. The city is prone to long periods of rainfall, enough to turn it is paths into shaking rivulets, enough to start the tree veins drinking in water instead of blood. You can tell when the lost city is raining inside someone’s head when you look into their eyes they are heavy or it’s like looking into a room someone’s just moved out of, with the outlines of the shapes of paintings still faded in on the wallpaper. The city makes your thoughts turn sodden, they drip from the tree leaves and you end up pressing them from your eyes. Every rain tear is a snowflake of sad words, the trees shudder inside you, you stand shaking in doorways. You say something mean to someone because you’re scared of drowning but want to take the words back right after. You lie down under the covers, hiding you think; ‘at least the trees still love me’.
In one of your favourite pictures the girls two lips look like upturned tulips so you try to grow a garden at the back of your teeth. You take a water can and tip it against your tongue. You play classical records with your mouth open for the new green shoots. There are flowers behind your eyes, your body is a gathering of stems. You touch your tulips to someone else’s tulips and your cheeks suddenly bloom.
There is something like a spool of thread in the shape of the world where your heart should be. It is static telephone wire. Your heart is noise pop. Your heart is reaching away from you and attaching itself to others until there are wires everywhere and it’s like walking around in a graveyard of communication lines that isn’t a graveyard but a gathering of souls.
It takes a long time to read someone like a book. You need lean your spines together and then the bone patterns get imprinted and press together in invisible molds. That person’s bone prints nestle in beside your own bones to form little memory fossils. If you run your fingers down someone’s back sometimes you can feel them, it is like reading in braille.
The left hand is dense with feathers. When you find yourself uncertain they flutter in agitation. When you’re sleeping they brush against your cheeks. The bones are light and they look like reverse footprints of birds through your skin when you clench your fingers.
The right hand is made of glass. You do everything thing you can not to break it. You don’t touch people who speak with sharp words or people from high places when they look dangerous. Someone holds your hand and feel a mix of happiness and nervousness. Later on you check for hairline cracks with a microscope.
In your feet there is a city of ice. It thinks the ground is the ocean and you haven’t the heart or the words to tell a city what to believe in. When you’re frightened a shiver thrills down your spine and touches your heels. It results in plummeting temperatures in the city of ice and you are frozen to the floor for days. Your feet turn blue, you try to breath but it covers the windows in slices of Antarctica and you’re left scraping the frost from the surfaces.