"i want it back / i drag it's dead weight forward"

THERES A GIRL ON THE SIDEWALK. HER HAIR IS ALL SPLAYED AND SHE IS KIND OF CROUCHED, SLUMPED AGAINST A TRASH BIN HER LEGS TOGETHER AT THE KNEES AS IF SHE WAS HOLDING THEM TOGETHER WITH HER HANDS. SHE IS STILL ALIVE.

Theres spongy, red floral patterns swirling behind her on the sidewalk, drying in the sun, she is crawling on her hands and knees, dripping down her mouth and chin, her nose, her hair tangled stuffed in the back of her shirt collar so it doesn't swing in her way. The top of her hair is burning up in the sun and the palms of her hands are too. the sidewalk is rough and seems to drink in fluid.

She knows she isn't close enough to a lake. She knows she isn't close enough to any worldly solace. She heads for the woods, anywhere with enough undergrowth and leaves.

Each moment drags on eliciting more stabs of pain, but she can barely feel a thing.

Ant piles are gifts. They are empires united under a growth of cement: toiling masses of sinew and raw brains and the first bond and a gift to the residence it is beholden, presents that few can realize. And the girl would reconstruct these temples with her hands.And these ants would repay her.

So many ants hide in wait. This time, they know not to save her. This time she’s gonna pay them back. Kindness for good-[and an eye for an eye, for those others] In the fertile soil every thing is still, flies and beetles hide under cool rocks and spirally snails deeply hidden, flies and shiny maggots and smooth-shelled cicadas, carapaces glinting in anticipation of a mind to share. The cool embrace of the forest awaits her mossy beds ready to cushion her fall, like a shimmering mirage in the distance. How many vacant vessels will she fill? How much is there inside her to pour out?

SHE IS STILL ALIVE. AND BENEATH THE GROUND, TEEMING ARMIES LIE AWAITING HER CROWNING DEATH IN THE FERTILE SOIL.

And soon nearby, in a mirror-world there's an angel waiting to crawl into a body, erupt from it's shining chrysalis, primed to haunt whatever it has to, observe whatever ropes tie it and cut off whoever it pleases. Giant wings hidden by leaves buried in the ground a gorgeous vessel waiting for thoughts, waiting for strings to be woven and tied neatly after death. [But when this girl dies, the shimmering angel will find no ropes besides masses of scar-tissue holes patching the skin together roughly, like it was re-sewn by tiny insect hands. the angel will find nothing to love inside of itself, inside of her,

and isn't that what it fears most--to haunt nothing and pray to no one. Without a god or without anything the angel cannot take any shape. Being without cause or direction is terrifying in itself.]

This hasn't happened before.

So it wonders, will I take the shape of the girl i was before? Will I dissolve into the sidewalk like the red spilling from her, or is it even her own, it's hard to see wounds as the invisible girl crawls steadily, her mouth agape but barely any air forcing inside, 'cept for when she moves forward it's drawn into her jaws. It can't see which house she came from, it could have been any of them but it thinks there may have not been a soul in the house she occupied, or perhaps the whole street, because no one was outside--hence her invisibility.

Held by no one's eyes at last she can rest. The only eyes for miles are her own and that's all she's glad for now. This is a blessing. Blessed, invisible and bleeding on the sidewalk. Each stumbling blink of her heavy-lidded eyes is a prayer.

She was so much, and directed nowhere: just waiting to ferment inside her own skin. When the energy has no objective, it rots in itself, it doubles and grows, it awaits the slightest touch.

The trees wave slightly in the breeze, heavy absence of sound except for distant car-street traffic in the long, far distance. There were so many richly laden offerings of ant-piles and burrow-nests just under the soil no one could see, hard glinting bodies like gems peeking up from the dirt yet somehow gone unnoticed. A rejected offering is a terrible thing, for your house will become the temple, your bed the altar and you the offering once everything is settled. You can burn and the smoke will birth new dust that paves the road. Unless you are the last to go, in which the roads burn with you and green grows over it all. That's why all the lots are covered here. She does like bugs, though. Maybe not so empty after all.

THIS GIRL WAS THE SACRIFICE ONCE. SHE WAS THE LAMB BURNED AT THE ALTAR

Then the angel wonders if it will dissolve. It wonders if it will take back her old body and restart. Will nothing happen?

THIS GIRL WAS THE SACRIFICE ONCE / SHE WAS THE LAMB BURNED AT THE ALTAR / THE BIRD SHOT FOR SPORT. THEY LAUGHED AS THEY DISPOSED OF HER

The girl is on the soil now. Hands near burned from the scathing cement, she martyred onwards and finally reached cool ground, whatever she thinks she is, i don't think she has a single shred of awareness that hasn't been used up dry until now, water sucked out of a shriveled cloth in the desert. But it’s only a hundred and three degrees, and this isn't a desert it’s a stretch of houses and empty lots with grass where houses should have gone.

DISPOSABLE GIRL LEFT TO DIE IN A PARKING LOT, LAY TO ROT ON AN ANT BED / “IF WE SACRIFICE THE USELESS, MAYBE THE PILES WILL BE SATISFIED FOR ONCE / THE ONE WHO FEEDS ANTS” /

She did used to like empty lots. Whatever she has ever thought is irrelevant in the path she takes now. Marching on broken sticks and earth, spongey grass bits, dappled leaves mixed into the mulch. She could be smiling, she definitely isn't crying, so you have to decide her face for yourself. Maybe she is a blank slate. Maybe she is tired of being one.

THE SHOCKS OF ADRENALINE STARTED ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. ONE BY ONE, THOUSANDS UPON THOUSANDS OF ANTS SWARMED HER SKIN AND BIT HER. OVER AND OVER SHE WAS REPAID, REPAIRED OVER AND OVER SHE AWOKE FROM DEATH WITH A SHOCK, A CYCLE THAT DIDN’T END TILL THE ENTIRE TEMPLE WAS DEAD AROUND HER AND BY THEN, THE COPS HAD SPOTTED HER THROUGH THE WOVEN WIRE-LEAF TANGLED GATE

The angel awaits it's vessel:

[but as we well know, this girl is unlike any other offering. Ravaged and bound like a terribly wrapped parcel by tangled knots of scar tissue, a shell with no strings for the angel to cut, no thoughts or prayers for it to silence. Only a shambling husk remains, driven by one final instinct: to find a quiet place to rest.]

THERE IS A GIRL CRAWLING ON THE SIDEWALK. SHE IS STILL ALIVE. AND BENEATH THE GROUND, TEEMING ARMIES LIE AWAITING HER DEATH IN THE FERTILE SOIL.

The girl wants to lie down in a lot, but theres not enough growth there. There's a beautiful empty spot that, if she had the luxury of circling round, she would have; not unlike a cat right before it goes to sleep.

She will collapse into the verdant moss, tucked into the cool earth as into a loving mother's arms; and her body will inexplicably pick itself up in a moment. The body will get up and walk away from the spot and turn it's eyes to the sun, shading its face with a hand outstretched.

But it leaves the girl behind.

This time she's tucked under a pocket of earthy brambles and bushes, the last position she managed to hold. She is on her side curled like a baby: legs tucked up, one arm outstretched, the other flat against the ground, her head lying against it. This is the place she once played hide-and-seek, so sheltered that the sun barely shines through, beautiful lush undergrowth and leaves blanket her body tucked just-so under the moss blanket.

And when she wakes up again, hours later, the smell of rain is fresh. Not a drop has touched her skin, the leaves perfectly shelter her. The rich scent of petrichor, like earthy perfume, swamps her.

She lies there for a long while, ear pressed against the soil, a sheet of gentle dirt caking her in a thin film, she can feel bugs against her chest beating out the same rythm as her heart. But when she holds her breath, it's not her own heartbeat she hears but the vibrating of thousands of wings.

The angel can only watch as consciousness slowly recedes behind her vacant eyes. When at last she draws her final breath, the angel marvels at how it's vessel has escaped eternal servitude. As rain begins to fall, washing away the bloodied soil in tiny streams, the angel can only listen to the soft patter of water on leaves, pondering the fate it has narrowly avoided.

But this was not to be.

As the angel turned, it felt a tugging in it's shoulders. A strange coldness collided with some sort of hidden reserve of warmth as it watched in fascination: a tiny silver thread unspooling from deep within it's chest was dragging it back towards the girl. There was no point in fighting it, instead the angel padded softly back to where she lay, kneeling over her prone body, covering her with it's wings, sinking deeper and deeper until in a heartbeat, it 's etheric mass was absorbed into her body. Their hearts had clicked into place, the mirror found its reflection. And then the cicadas droning rose to a wailing wall of noise that seemed to drown everything out.

THERE IS A GIRL IN THE PARK BY THE EMPTY LOT / SOMEWHERE AN ANGEL HAS LANDED.

The girl lifted her hands to her face, very slowly. It seemed to take ages but eventually she touched her cheek, hands sliding down symmetrical on either side, and as if performing a ritual, methodically lifted her hand to the sky, intending to interrupt the sky from splattering her face with bright light.

The hand is nearly transparent, but there are no veins and blood beneath, instead just a gossamer-light filagree of delicate, vibrating material that twists into the shape of fingers, a hand, an arm, every crack sealed with sparkling silver, as if water was frozen midair.

Her skin is iridescent.

She rises from the brambles, shaking away dirt and nerve-like root tethers. The frail bonds snap away gently and fall back to the ground, barely pricking her skin.

Her limbs no longer ache.

She was filled with an overwhelming desire to see what form she had taken. This girl had no religious ties. She had half thought she would dissolve into a fine mist. She didn't even know her name.

And suddenly she gasped, lifting her arms in shock as she realized. There were dozens, probably hundreds of miniscule silvery ties that glinted like spiderwebs in the sun. Her eyes widened as thousands of distorted memories flashed across her vision.

The girl kneeling on a cracked porch, sun spilling everywhere as she picked crumbs off of a dry cracker she was holding, planting them in front of ant piles in little circles

But again these memories are interrupted by the shock that her limbs no longer ache, or that she hadn't been able to feel it for a long time and was now aware of a more present sensation: Deep pulsating shocks inside her heart like papery droves, and she reached in to draw out a handful of insect bodies: all beautiful and hardened shells, centipedes curling around her fingers in glossy tendrils, and she sort of crumpled onto her knees to watch them in awe. And somehow when they spoke to her, it was a warm stirring of tendrils, a slight thousands of clicking murmurs in her head and she knew it was going to be all-right; she thought back to how much she loved them [in the way insects love, they are purely reactionary creatures, the only kind of love she knows is the sinking appeal of a familiar functional routine, something to coexist with, and maybe your heart will follow after. It never does, but it's a nice thought for us to hold. Just in case.]

But that false affection always leaves you hollow. Love is something your heart feels on it's own. This angel is no longer hollow, she is filled up perfectly, two full hearts inside her chest [to the left her angel, to the right her own, and filling them both, threads and bugs to curl up warm and peaceful inside the hollows. She felt at peace for once in her life. The ground was warm beneath her bare feet. For a moment, the girl angel hearts marveled at each other's presence, almost shyly but quickly melting into each other to form lungs that birthed more fluttery wings, it was like they had been the same for eons. They were familiar, and almost without realizing it, she lifted her wings as an extension of her own body, an afterthought. They were beautifully veined, more like an insect but carrying the long-coveted scalloped edges of bird feathers: a milky white that turned almost blue-iridescent in the sunlight, like a cicada.

You cannot be just an empty void, the angel whispered. Theres always a shell and just that is enough to tempt bugs. They will fill you and your skin will move again, and when the bugs consume you, you will fill them and they fill you. Your skin will birth and feed millions, and each will carry your flesh and blood and name, carrying them as crowning signals, they will scatter and propagate your name and keep you alive. They will speak your name and of your blood, and speak with the others who have been given this life. And they will all rejoice in this birth. And your ossature will be a fountain of life to millions. They will come back to where you once lay, like bruised salmon return to familiar waters, and they will die there and curl in your soul and love these empty hollows. They fill in these cracks with honey and gentle humming, light and delicate tendrils and spare wing-scales. The closest to love for us, while remaining pure, is that of a creature capable of nothing but reflexive action. It's a filling. Something to hold you. We never had a cradle, but now these wings will hold us so, so gently. Oh, isn't the sky beautiful? Isn't all of this?

No more words were necessary.

The angel rose from her kneeling position, and began gingerly walking, almost dancing towards the water to wash the blood off her feet.