A small patch of sunlight shines,
a fairy pushes her head into the day.
Arrogance shimmers throughout the entirety of her figure,
Wings fluttering, twirling and flying.
The world spins and she flies blindly, whizzing and touching
The warped, deranged world.
Distorted and colorful, the fairy loves it,
A buzzing fairy song.
She loves to fly, and how she flies, faster, higher, spinning,
Oh, how the world spins for a little faire,
Nothing is out of reach.
Colors distorted, warped, bright and irregular,
So ugly,
So pretty.
She smiles and tries to touch the spinning sky and the fluttering birds.
But it is out of reach for the fairy,
She cannot touch,
She falls,
She always falls,
Her wings snap and she falls.
Always,
It hurts increasingly each time.
She crashes,
Screaming,
She is a broken fairy.
Things are still spinning,
But she flies no more.
No longer are things pretty,
But it is the bleak damp world.
The warped fairy buzzing and the absurd happiness drift away.
She is all that remains of the fairy,
Expecting it,
Knowing it,
She opens her mouth wide waiting,
And it comes,
Leaving her body in a rush,
Making a wet pile on the floor.
A fairy no more, but a girl,
Falls,
Into a haze,
A fairy sleep.



II

Bleak,
Unsatisfying daylight
Puts a room alight.
A corpse lies on a mattress,
A wet pile on the floor.
The undead lifts its head to once again,
ever again,
a white walled room.
The monster lifts the head of half eaten flesh.
Raises the tawny talons of sin.
Once pretty,
Once clean,
Now a mere corpse.
A body stands, trudges, wetting its bare feet in the pile on the floor.
Monster hands open a cabinet,
Push past her old soccer trophies,
Phone numbers of friends she never called,
Letters from places of people telling her things she just didn’t understand.
Tear soaked tissues,
Opened bags of chips,
And the box.
Hands,
Aged and scarred reached for the box,
Cradling the keeper.
Monster reaches in the box and takes out fairy dust once more.
She will fly again tonight.