Pebbles in the Drift

I hurled my laughter

against the sharp-thistle sky,

where old pebbles roll in gossip,

and drift carries broken tongues.

The elders scratched their secrets

in bruised bark and hollow stone,

a murmur left behind,

too splintered for my foolish lips to shape.

Every word, a stutter—

every joke, a crack in my painted grin.

I danced anyway,

over the scattered bones of forgotten meanings,

my jester’s hat torn by the thorns,

my slippers slick with dust.

Beneath my feet,

the pebbles whispered —

flawed,

flawed,

flawed,

until the sound stitched itself into my shadow.

I picked up a stone once,

smooth and cold as a swallowed truth,

and pressed it to my chest.

It wriggled.

It spoke.

It called me nothing more than a walking error

in an abandoned script.

The thistles laughed too,

curling their spiny fingers at my ribs,

daring me to dance again,

daring me to drift

into the cracks between then and now.

I drifted.

I always drift.

In the bruised light of noonday,

I wear my motley wrong,

tilting my voice toward the places

where even the wind will not listen.

In the end, I scribble new riddles

across my own bones,

knowing none will understand,

hoping none will understand,

terrified one might.

The pebble-song hums on.

The thistle-chatter clings.

The drift devours my footsteps.

And still,

I dance.