reaching out

they reach out, twisted branches that look more like claws as they cling to your ankles, dig nails into the hems of your trousers and leave you stumbling and tripping. they reach out, as though turning towards that which will help them grow, as though you can aid them and help them and lead them to new heights. they reach out and mark your face with moss, with mud, smeared green and brown and red where the thorns caught your skin and tugged.

salt runs over your lips, into your mouth, dances on the tip of your tongue. you squeeze your eyes shut instead, feel them burn at the corners as the clawed grip turns into something gentler, almost comforting, mostly pitying. they have begun to pity you, these beings, older than anyone you’ve ever known in your so-short life, older even than the pages that crumple beneath your fingers as you turn them and the ink that smears as you touch them.

they are old, they are so old, and you are so young, and they caress your face as you cry in the middle of the woods, the smell of rotting leaves thick in your nose and throat. they comfort you - or, at least, they attempt to - and they ask what’s wrong, child, tell us, tell us the secrets and let us make it all better and you are so, so tempted. it would be so easy, after all, for the bitterness of honesty to fill your mouth instead of the salt that lives there now, for the words to overflow and become rivers, rushing water that fills the space around you with heavy, weighted words. they ask for honesty, and you are so close to giving it to them.

they ask for your name, your true name, and it would be so simple to give in and tell them, let familiar syllables escape your mouth for the last time as they lift the weight from your body for the final time, reprieve eternal rather than sudden and short. caressing your face, whispering in your ear, telling you how they just want to help, they want to save you from yourself and all the monsters that haunt your life, that stalk in the shadows and lurk just out of sight before they finally reach out with their own shadow-heavy claws to drag you down, down, down.

i will not tell you my name, you say. they can probably hear the hesitation in your voice. they know people better than people could ever know them, after all, and they know the nuances of lies and truth better than any other beings on earth possibly could. angry, they hiss, but retreat, their gentle hand lingering a few more moments, just enough for your heart to ache and batter your ribs, but you stand strong. you do not make deals with them. if you forget all else in life you will always, always, remember that.