Her hands are wrinkled

shriveled up

like flowers beaten by the sun. 

But in her hands

she holds a rose. 

not like her hands at all.

It’s soft

young 

unscarred.

She used to be that way too

when she ran

with the sun gently kissing her face.

She used to say she would run 

into the sky

to the purple moon and golden stars.

Now she runs away

from her memories where the sky cracks open

and so does the ground.

Lava and storms and men with dark eyes.

She runs from the monsters

that hid under her bed when she was a small girl.

They come screaming like knives 

and chase her to caves

where no sun can kiss her

dark like she was stuck at the bottom of the sea. 

The rose reminds her of her childhood

with sticky lemon candy 

gardens with faries

stone paths to other worlds.

The rose fully there

not a ghost of a rose

like she is the ghost of a woman.

Now she sits on a rock

and a butterfly lands on her cheek

she fades into the earth. 

Into the gardens with flowers

and bees too kind to ever sting.

She feels the dirt between her toes.

She is not scared anymore

just her and the rose.