inhale.

they hold within their hardened heart a frantic fear of closeness, of belonging. the last time they belonged anywhere was with her, but in reality they had never belonged. she had just used their then-soft heart to trick and to treat as much as she pleased until they collapsed under the strain of their dead brother’s brain that splattered all over the white basement walls, and upon hearing such news, she withdrew all her treats and disappeared in one last trick, making clear that she’d never really been their best friend after all.

they forgot what it felt like to breathe and to stretch their aching arms out, to feel sun on their skin and joy in their soul, to know kinship and camaraderie with familiar folks who somehow help them remember to dance and to sing despite the storm clouds ever stirring ominously overhead, but even after such a long time spent in a terrifyingly transient state, they somehow find themselves in the midst of the magic that is a new home.

little nuggets of trust, handed out like refund checks on tax day but with an undeterminable value, are given to those that they find when the human lands among the reeds of the raven and ram’s domain, sprawling out and breathing in the sunlight and hills of green pastures with wildflowers blooming in the thousands-yet the human clutches the straps of the nugget bag in fear.

they wonder if they’ve given away too many of their precious nuggets, those treasures and trifles from the deep of their mind that they spent years collecting and curating for display only in the museum of their past, but the sunlight felt too warm, the flowers too enticing, the raven and ram became their companions, and they collapsed onto the rolling green hills with their fellows, letting go of the heaviest bag they have ever held with a sigh of relief.

they exhale fear, and inhale home.