NATALIE, WHERE ARE YOU?
NATALIE WAITE
By which I mean me. By which I mean: dirt and damp leaves and matted blood-salted hair. By which I mean: myth.
Girl. Compost heap. Rotted blue limbs. Everywhere, polluting, haunting the woods. I made it out alive, I think, but also maybe I didn’t. Maybe I is an error message. Maybe I is a fantasy. A silk sheet draped over an emptiness.
