They whisper that it's wrong,
but tell me it's alright
that faeries live inside their bottles,
growing from the bottom up
and branching out into their lips
like Good Folk like to do.
Their arms are vines with leafing
reaching up beyond your throat,
through your eyes and past your teeth,
trying to crawl out from your chest;
they slip inside and slide between your cheeks,
thrashing up against your back,
winding through and down your spine,
overriding your mind with their fey lies—
but you claim to like it.
Tipping slightly downward toward my
eyes glazed over and graceless,
grabbing at your infidelity with a single drink;
let's downpour more on your soul,
sticky alcohol mumblings stumbling across your collar,,
breaking open your pretty lips in profanities;
I didn't know Jesus Christ was a name you called on often.
But f can only end in ucking,
just like sh can only end in it;
pretty beads in your vocabulary necklace
limited to all the things you wouldn't say around children.
You're dripping and
slipping and splitting between my fingers;
the fun has only just begun, and already you're
ringing vibrations of an empty shell.
I tap against your exterior and pretty music sings,
slightly off key like it's not supposed to be there,
and you swear you're the same only better,
with a new skeleton stretched underneath your façade
laced in liberalism and unoriginality.
I want to smile but I want to scream;
you're just that scary.
Hold my brother's hand,
hand him a drink,
a sip to swish between his teeth
like all young children should;
ten years old is ripe and fresh
to bite the fruit of an illicit tree,
even for you,
even for me.
But blame is just a game that
any more than every other senseless sigh
riding tails of wishing stars into a shallow sea
of alcohol that strips the bones from
fingertips I used to know so intimately,
before you drowned yourself to death
from the inside out.
I begged you not to put your faith in faeries.