I think I might like to grow thorns. Tough spines that barb anyone who grabs at me, tries to take from me, moves toward me any way other than delicately. Or thick boney horns I can point in front of me to shield the soft, sensitive parts. Not cruel, protected.

Wilderness is the void that we fill with paradise or prison, heaven or hell. A valley we can flow through or struggle against. Maybe one day I would learn how to live in the in-between place called home.

It would have been so easy, barely a step down off the low roof onto me, teeth sunk into my neck and the end of me.

My mind flits around like that, darts and dives and twitches at times, and other times perches immobile, faintly ruffling in the breeze.