If I came with a card of instructions it would say on it, somewhere, "Not to be trusted with soft rainy days or hearts tied to strings like little red balloons." Because I've got a little bit of magic here, held with a bow on my wrist, and I'd write your name in sharpie on the waistband of its underpants if I could only be sure that you'd remember to feed it. Except I've watched you walk, and you leave a trail of empty bird's nests in your wake.
I know which rocks your monsters come up from under, and how to turn them into billy goats, too, but I'm not telling. Just to prove that I can keep some secrets from you. Because the spiteful elves that live under my collarbones think that you deserve some monsters, and all of the splinters that come from their sharp horns and pointed toenails.
When you think of me, squint your eyes and think real hard. That's where I am, right there on the backs of your eyelids, in pin curls and a half slip. Be careful with your yo-yo, please--this room is covered in vases.
No comments:
Post a Comment