Winter white grass.

 Being a woman is like learning how to love again and again, and thinking that our hearts are always deeper than what they appear to be, as we swim from cliffs, assuming the sky is soft. and we fall into our own boxes created by points, created by past women in our competition to prove we are aliens again, without a past. For everyone but us will live with the weight of being human, we will fly higher than that girl, that trash, that no named adventure that sits on street corners feeling emotions we don't comprehend, we are better super humans who have never experienced the depths. and yet every possibility grows slowly into the winter white grass of our ancestors to become a steady blue stream of water.