Tiny trinkets

The phantom spits venom. Soliciting at the edges of my common sense. There’s scary enough things happening to the world but the phantom is me. In the dark, when old spells hex me.

Geese forging temporary homes in snow piles is evidence enough for the merits of adaptive thinking. Still I weigh the odds of upstreaming the subtemperate river without a paddle.

Certitude is on shaky ground. My hands are shaky too. I’m worried about forgetting myself so I write everything down. Sometimes good stuff pours out and I remember what it is to be me. Other times it’s phantom or another Notes app list.

The whole kingdom would be behooved to know it wasn’t the witch’s fault. The witch cautioned her. The girl just didn’t recognize her shadow.

I scan to see who is steering this human body. Is it me or is it phantom suspended by a cloud of fog. My lithe limbs become sandbags and suddenly I’m at the bottom of the river.

Seconds or maybe hours, I wade back to the surface. I come back to myself. I’m walking myself home. The radiator defrosts my fingers quickly enough. There’s enough light still to scribble something down, to pet the cats, to tidy the room of my own. Had it not been for my legs, we would’ve never found the geese snowed in.

Like a horcrux I place the bits of me inside tiny trinkets. Spread across the room so next time this happens I know where to look. Piece by piece until I can make out my existence, and then I go on building myself back together again.