when something's shattered and you can only see a transparent simulacrum, built by your own body's not-quite-pareidolia. when the jagged edges of it clash and fall behind each other, and when the light's angles lessen and greaten as they please. when you can construct its being out of how it's a pattern hiding behind a pattern. when that pattern seeks to be known behind its brokenness.

when the shards' outlines form the floral, the sensual, the fragrant that finds itself in many forms. the phallic and the newly-floral and the altered, playfully bodily. the little fractalled stamen and the pistil, within the orchid who is grafted upon another's stalk. the ways that the sight that is reconstructed resemble their deconstruction through the air. the ways there is a filtered touch in how the light dances on her fragmented body.

where light can fall upon her fruits and ebb from her thighs. where the dance's back and forth is enticing and where it's stimulating. you can fall into her temptations and find yourself, too, shattered into a frozen divergence.

shardgirl? her image is pieced together. it may have been complete once, or maybe the shapes you seem to see in her are purely apophenic. when you hold her hand, you can feel portions of it not just on your own, but there's a semblance of fingers running through your hair, hot and cold and forceful and gentle in varying amounts. she smells like a flower that died a long time ago. its pollens are still tickled by the winds, returning as aeroplankton.