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