The mottled blue-skinned forest girl

A mottled blue-skinned forest girl lives inside
me. She has no name. She stares at me with
black eyes and threatens every good thing I’ve
got going, gesturing with her wrist spikes as
she whoops and cackles and hops from foot to
foot. I sense her whims by degrees of danger,
by the nearness of her body-blades’ whooshing.
I divine whether each danger is good, bad, or
bittersweet; I try to mitigate the worst. The
mottled blue-skinned forest girl knows every
way to destroy the people around me. She is
part lichen and tree mist; she bathes in a spring
of dark water that sings the names of every
stone and spirit, alive and dead. The mottled
blue-skinned forest girl is not concerned with
the smallness of fear and hurt. She cuts
openings for truth to emerge, helpful or not.
The mottled blue-skinned forest girl was
supposed to have died 11 years ago, when her
skin was the colour of milk. I buried her myself,
along with my name.