That woman who refuses to grow up, her brown eyes speak of the pain that her bunny smile defies so easily. She jumps and gets excited like a little child. Other times she has all the seasons she has lived in her elegant stride. She writes letters to her mom, making her understand, pleading her to be once again her best friend. But she never really sends it to her. She lives her wishes like a bird, like a fish. Other times, she lets them die in her stories, in her poetry.
My big sister, who scolds me and makes me shut the fuck up, she was walking on a road she was meant to walk on, by others. My little kid, she jumps through the bushes every now and then, to find other, less-trodden paths. She is a wild child, with a flower heart. I am so happy that she learns to run faster every time; she has not stopped running ever. I am sometimes scared, that she would hurt herself. But my baby does not need no nerves of steel, she has the heart of a wildflower.