she is the sixth syllable and
the twenty seventh letter.
everything they taught you in school
did not prepare you for this.
she has the quiet of the floorboards
of the victorian house at the end of the street. 
but you don’t go near her. you can’t.
you’re so scared to look at her it makes you sorry.
she is your first laugh at three months old,
the heart breaking in you at sixteen,
the realisation that not every road in
the world is a blocked one.
that there are construction sites in your head
and that’s why you can’t hear yourself think.
she is the moments, she is the slap, she is the being
and tonight, she is lying on your stomach in the dark,
and the grass will turn into quicksand,
and the moon will crumble into itself,
but you won’t notice.