edith: are we not?
edith, we are not.
edith knows.
(edith means rich war, this i know,
and this alone)
edith knows we're fairies.
fairies believe in edith.
edith believes in strange summers and ugly sweaters and rich wars raged within your own ribs.
edith questions the existance of her heart,
and thinks, if it does exist,
that it is made of wool.
that in her chest is an ugly sweater wrapped around a chesnut,
and hopes she will not get ink disease.
edith does not think she is a poet, but writes lists of questions she will ask her future husband, or wife, or what have you.
which is not i, i know,
we are not.
bees dance around you because you are so sweet,
and i think your heart is made of honey,
but edith,
i can see you starting to wither,
i think, prehaps,
that's tannic acid seeping from your fingertips and,
you promised me you weren't a poet.
promised you didn't think about big whales and little snails,
that you had to go through the alphabet to find a rhyme,
that you couldn't say the alphabet backwards,
that words meant nothing to you.
and look, now you're rotting,
and edith,
we are still not.

a/n: inspiration credit to leonard cohen.