. . . _ _ _ . . .


Arina Petrova is a hypothesis.
She is stardust. Melted chocolate.
She dances on the dark side of the moon.
She is a monster, a dragon,
A story to scare,
To inspire.
She bathes in fire, forged
From an erupting volcano
On Jupiter.
Maybe, she should be admired,
Taken to a photo booth and savored for
Eternity on glossy paper, with
Her own fingerprints scattered in mazes
Across its drying surface.
Possibly she should be studied in a lab,
Examined, taken apart,
So that every bone, every droplet, every inkling
Of her body can be translated into Morse code. Or her soul.
Life is short, a blink, a nano-second, and the body is worthless.
She is the universe compressed into
One tiny speck, a tiny speck so large
It can take up lifetimes,
Pulsing, breathing,
Uncontrollable, non-existent,
Vulnerable, yet powerful.
She rides a surfboard in solar storms,
Catching dreams among the voids, and gets back home
In time for her fifth cup of
Peppermint tea.
She paints pictures
Upon her body with a blade,
Her fingers stained with
Vermillion ink. She lives
Inside her head, and sings
In the shower. Her hair is plaited with
Fragments of an exploded nebula.
She untangles the knots, then
Walks the world barefoot.
And people shout, “We know her! Arina Petrova,
The one with voices in her head.”
She is bursting with colour, and
The freedom is unbearable.
So cold. So broken. So ordinary.
A supernova. A sliver of dying eternity.