I am a girl with a mutable heart, a soul of mud, and seed, and sprout.
I feed the sparrows with the bones of my past – my present shows itself to me, shyly facing belly-up, in my dreams – my future hides in the darkness, when the shadows whisper sad words.
I carry a fairytale in my arms like an infant, and it is hungry, and begs to be fed often.
I am a mother and a king. I walk with my vanity and live in fear of its power.
Underneath my skin, and my blood, and my muscle, I feel my aspects shudder and snap, one setting off the other, stars too close in orbit taking aeons to explode. It is a slow and painful process, cross-sections of supernovae available to the laziest observer. I am left open and shivering, calcium and carbon.
And the stars have names, marble names and sand names and names that have never left the darkness; the shadows whisper the sad things, though, and they call to me: daughter of the Moon, Saturn’s baby, sister of Persephone, Hekate’s student, Dionysus’ lover.
I treat the wound in my womb and it opens instead. I listen to it croon of a terrible beauty.
I cling, quite desperately, to a sliver of mountain song that has me yearn for an ancient palace in the rock, gilded with obsidian and netted in filigree. I look for love and it looks for me, because it knows I am an easy spirit in a difficult world.
I have skin sweeter than milk and a mind like the branches of a tree from a dream sequence. I kiss a sky that cannot feel me. I think my haphazard mosaic of half-remembered skills and dusty talents lie somewhere between the mass of roots and burrows.
I am haunted by the ghosts I have not met, my father’s heir, third daughter: witch and priestess and scholar.
I leave gifts for the fairies, and they send me some back: clean rain, rumbles of thunder, the mildest suggestion of smoke on the altar.