fear the poet
her approach with knives
best loved changeling child
my momma threw me into the fire when I was a baby, that’s where those scars came from. no, not really. I don’t know where they came from.
but when I sleep, I am a stick in your bed
nothing is what it seems when you love a changeling child
and she grows up and sports paint on her hips, poison her lips, poetry fingertips