Outside,
a haze of mist pins the cold to the ground.
Moving through it gathers the moisture on my brow
and it drips,
so slowly that it gathers the heat and salt from my skin
and it feels familiar,
as familiar as my own tears.
So familiar is it
that it's almost a comfort
and I do not wipe them from my cheeks.
The heavy air muffles sounds,
transporting me back to my childhood
when broken ears muddled every note,
and I am lulled,
my walk sways,
my coat warms,
and the slow shuffle through grass
in my worn, leather boots,
becomes as comforting as the gentle undulation
of a rocking chair
or a mother's womb.
A healthy musk wafts upwards when my boots cut through the hay on the floor of the coop,
and the content clucking of the hens encourages me,
my hands rooting through the wood shavings,
and there they are,
smooth and shaped to perfection,
the rich brown that makes my stomach grumble in anticipation.
I place my treasures in the folds of my skirts,
and turn to leave,
sighing as I acquiesce to a return to a harsher realm,
far beyond my dear, grey faery world,
with lichen-covered tree bark,
and wordless creatures for company.

For Little Me,
My little copy,
Who’s not so little
Any more.
To little me,
Who’s growing up,
And becoming a strong,
And beautiful woman.
I tell you now,
Little me,
Don’t look at my expression
When I scroll through pictures of myself.
Don’t watch me cringe
When I look at the scale,
Or listen to my mumbled sentiments
Of self-hatred
After I indulge in something rich
And flavorful.
Don’t take after me,
Little Me.
You’re far too precious.
More precious to me
Than I am to myself
To do what I do
When I look at myself.
Little Me,
I hear you in the store.
Where you used to twirl in colorful outfits in front of the mirror,
you now turn with a look of disdain,
And comment on the fit,
The tucks and curves,
And places that don’t look quite right to you.
Little Me,
When I look at you,
You must understand,
I see a stunning young lady,
Blossoming into grace and radiating joy.
You are a burst of sunlight in a dark room
When you giggle
And grin
And greet everyone with equal love and respect.
What others see
Is not what you see
And life is too short
To tend to imaginary flaws.
Bask in your qualities,
Your bountiful,
Beautiful
Qualities.
I want you to see the same rosy cheeks,
Spun-copper hair,
And elegant, powerful height
That I do.
I want you to see yourself
With all of the love that I have for you,
Little Me.
My perfect,
Adorable,
Growing-up-far-too-quickly
Little Me.

Love me!
The mirror cried,
And I looked away in shame.

Ashes to Ashes
And Dust to Dust,
Passion and passion
From dusk to dusk,
I wake up gasping,
your name on my lips,
Between hazy dreams,
Settling between my hips.
Where some nights I writhe
Because I’m Wound far too tight,
In your arms, I move
Because it feels far too right.
If I had any sense
Of self-preservation,
I would release myself
From this sinful gratification,
But even in the safety of solitude,
All my morals neatly strung,
The first thing I crave
Is your taste on my tongue.
It matters not what I know in my brain,
In my head,
Dreams bring your most depraved needs
To your bed.
Night is a strange time,
The space between day,
But not even sunrise,
Keeps the darkness at bay.
The longer I wait,
Delaying my fall,
The faster I’ll expect you
To pick up my call.

The texture of the glass is rough with blemishes,
convex with swells of adipose tissue
and spotted with stray hairs.
The occasional splotchy flush
on the sallow complexion
is just enough to suggest life
but not in the right locations
to suggest beauty.
The glass sneers.
The glass snarls.
It takes handfuls of its dull, lanky hair
and yanks,
as if with one tug, the entire image could come to a screeching halt
like the break line on a train.
It's a hideous image,
but it doesn't frighten like a vision of a monster.
Instead,
it insights a painful tug in the chest cavity,
an ache,
a slow, throbbing pang
that lengthens with every glance.
Nothing feels quite as horrible
as the realization
that even if the glass breaks,
comes to the floor
and splinters,
shatters...
Its duplicate will still exist.
In me.

I will not be afraid,
in dark alleys
or empty parking lots.
I will not be afraid,
when the predatory glances
grow furtive
and purposeful.
I'm not a girl,
I'm a woman,
and I don't smile,
I glow.
Everything about me,
from the shine of my hair,
to the dirt on the bottom of my heels
is regal from the moment it touches me.
Because I'm a queen,
and I was born to reign.
The alleys are my red carpet,
theatre seats are my throne.
Nothing that I set eyes on is allowed to alarm me.
Inside of me,
I carry a miracle,
an ability beyond the comprehension
of the opposite ***,
and outside of me,
I am disguised as a mere mortal.
I'm capable of going to battle
with the wildness and ferocity of a pride of lions,
and returning home to grace my loved ones with a softness that is so tender
so unconditional,
that it could **** with it's heart-aching gentleness.
I'm capable of whatever I wish,
creating life,
or taking it.
I'm capable of building civilizations
and destroying them.
I am a queen.
Whether I am a queen in a smart suit and stilettos,
or a queen in sneakers and sweats,
I'm a queen.
So fear me,
love me,
and be warned-
I refuse to bow to the evil that has been committed against my kind before.
I refuse to bow to the terror.
I refuse to bow at all.
I'm a queen.
I'm a **** queen.