the changling

eyes closed, combing her hair. wishes that it would grow longer so she could be like a nymph, wild and so free. she wants to live in a forest. she wants to fit inside of an acorn. she wants to be small and fragile. she wants the mosquitos to would stop nipping at her warm limbs, leaving a rosy stain. she wants to grow wings so that she could fly away. she wants for so many things these days.

she's wide awake at 2 am again. only those who sleep have dreams, so she stays awake. because she has beautiful dreams that only make her hurt, those dreams of salty kisses and romance that she never had. probably never will have, because who would love someone like her. she has stubby eyelashes and baby fat she hasn't outgrown even though she can buy lottery tickets and can vote.

she looks vulnerable, but in a twelve year old's skid knee sort of way. not in a pretty delicate china doll way. she looks like a girl who has never been in love. still unbroken, naïve of what is hidden inside of her. she watches the clock tick, pulls at loose threads on her cartoon bedspread, biting at her lip until the skin breaks and looks like a cherry bruise. underneath her bed there are piles and piles of journels, not filled up completely with words and sometimes whole sentences scratched out. she doesn't know how to put into words what it is she feels blistering inside of her.

"I want to feel real." she whispers to the moon outside her window. it hangs in the sky like a paper lantern, a bright medallion. bright, untouched, sitting alone on a friday night. they're a lot alike, her and that moon.