Sometimes I dream I am a statue in the palace gardens.
People wander around me, commenting on my shape, my form.
Her eyes look almost alive, they say, when the light hits them.
And all the while, I’m trapped inside myself. Screaming. But my lungs are stone and my lips are hard and my mouth tastes like old cemeteries. So no one hears me, no one cares.
Other times, I’m back in that church and I’m so scared I think I’m going to pass out.
I don’t cry, though. Father doesn’t like it when I cry. And the priest is in front of me with his crop.
I didn’t sin, I protest.
Oh, child. All women sin. Your mother was a sinner, and you are a sinner too. Do you want the Sun Goddess to be angry? No? Good. Turn around.
Other times, I’m running. I’m running through the forest as fast as I can. The win
