self-portrait as a Changeling
from the crib, it
was obvious
oddity of a child
much too quiet, uncrying
than a swaddled babe
ought to be.
there but not, right
but off
long thin, picking
hands and skinny bundle of a body
wide eyes like an
insect.
plain but oh so
Fair.
nearly sideways and
clothes inside out
tear out tags and
set out milk for my kind.
they know not what
to make of me,
elf-child sat in the
corner quiet and chaos
my teachers thinking
me a brutish, biting thing
skin burnt by the
iron in the blood i draw.
scream in speaking, my
hands recoil – too bright, too loud
taking to human’s
wisdom but not customs, speaking of bugs
or myths
or the taste of
wildflowers in my
teeth, i tear
with burning hands
my own heart and wonder why i am so sad.
the elders, the
unseeing, silly people with silly, angry hearts shout in the streets and
squares
seaspray in their
blind eyes
“the
blessed folk, the gentry – they stole her away! she is sick! she is lost!”
“the
poor family, a fiend such as her-“
“heathen, wretched thing-“
“what
shall we do?”
“who will be next?”
but i am not lost, and i am not sick.
they wish to burn me, wish to beat me
for they fear the folk and the minds they
do not know
why i scream at my own doings
and count the salt grains spilled
how i memorize the songs
and reason like the grown ups -
yet i cannot sit still
because i hear and feel everything
the breathing and the buzz and the
penscratch of each one writing
why they suspect me of killing
the perfect polite child i must once have been.
that i have never been.
but my family, those friends – knowing of
the off-kilter
see my sickly strange ways
and give me kindness knowing
a fae-touched, witch-child may be wild
and rage and break like a summer storm
but even wilderness wants love,
and it’s not only spirits that can scorn.
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