She felt a longing.
She felt a longing she couldn’t describe.
Could anyone understand her?
Could anyone standing It?
Whenever she’d open her mouth,
To speak about what it meant
To be free
To be wild
To feel the grass weaving on the inside of her thigh and realise it would itch her later and to not care, no not at all.
How do you communicate that to someone?
How do you speak?
How do you write?
What words do you use?
A house isn’t a home until you make it a home but what if a home isn’t her home?
What if the forest is her home?
What if the long blades of grass nestled her at back, and the long blades reaching out to glide across every inch of her body, what if that was her home?
There, surrounded by the grass, cared for by the Earth.
How do you even tell someone that?
How can you show someone that?
Is she the only one out there to be caressed by the Earth, to feel the grass across her bare body?
How can she talk of nudity, wide eyed manic pixie girl that she seems, without catching a label or too?
Would anyone ever understand that stab of frustration, pulsating, slithering through her body, at the sheer thought of wearing clothes?
Do people think, when they shop, of how they’d like to tear off every piece of clothing because it burns?
Do they look at the faceless crowd and see something in there, maybe wonder, if there is another like them?
She thought of all this and more,
Lying in the field,
nude body protected by grass,
An organic force field just for her
And felt that longing.