Out of Eden

I walk into the Garden of Eden and the apple tree is missing. I wander through all the colors of the world with an inkling that they are not so bright as I remembered. The proper maidens, with ringlets in their hair, hide their tattered hearts and unruly scars under clean, white garments. Their eyes dart over me and then drift down to the ground below us. “There are no lions here,” says one. She looks to another for confirmation, who looks away in return. I gaze over the ledge that leads to the grasslands and pull off my cloak, which causes my tail to flick to the left. “What about snakes?” I ask. “Are there any of those?” “I think not,” says another maiden.

On the street full of vendors, I choose lavender, because the world needs love. I pay with a coin made of silver and ignore the sideways glances of the people passing by. In the hills, I look for bones and eat berries that stain my fingers red, reminding me of the emptiness in the spaces inside us. To the moon, I howl along with the feral voices. How does the earth still spin with the weight of so much suffering? What else can we take from it before it simply abandons us? There are no answers to my questions that I can hear with my own ears. Perhaps only the stars know.

The path out of Eden is rocky yet well-traveled. I follow the way of those that have gone before me. I’m chasing butterflies now, on all four of my padded feet.

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