"i’m having the nightmare again. the one where the crooked wood comes to life & the tree-man with the sharp, gnarled branches uproots himself from the soil & comes stumbling out after me. i would recognize his face anywhere. it’s the face they sketched by the flow of my shaky 11-year-old words. after all these years, he finally gets to be rootless because wicked men are rarely punished for very long. his bark is dry & peeling & his exposed fruit rots from the inside out & i cannot peddle my little yellow bike away fast enough. the wheels get caught in the thick spring mud & suddenly i’m sinking & he reeks of revenge & i know nothing is stopping him this time because wicked men do not stop until they punish anyone who tries to tell them that the world isn’t theirs for the taking while the wind whispers to them: “take her, take her, take her.”
- what women dream about."