Sleepy faerie
The girl is a disaster
of flowers and hair –
She has wooden bones
and sleeps in the spice
of the woods.
The black haired faerie
makes food out
of dirt and twigs.
Maybe she grows,
maybe she slows,
but she’s tired.
The faerie
needs a home.
That’s me, I guess
She was born into a pickle,
stiff and sour,
like a girl
raised by Jesus
only to submit.
She rests her head
on my shoulder
and sobs
to grant release.
She doesn’t realize
she’s peppering seeds
with salt.
Trees unfold from my skin,
grow into woody walls.
Nothing new,
but now,
I am her home.