Drinking cider in daisy-grass, it all goes so fast.

She is such a wicked elf, with her gin laced tea of cornflowers and orange. She is the black gypsy of the night and her hair is long and thick and flowers are knotted through it. She is pretty and vulgar and knows how to die, just for a little while, with her empty bottle and her heart in shreds.

They're valium fingers that forget how to write and roses are dying which is nice because sometimes being alive isn't pretty.

She's soakng it in through her pores and it's overflowing with golden ointment. She is forgetting. She is comfortably numb. Peace has become silver and apples are to die for. Trampolines are to jump on and people are to talk to. There aren't thoughts of blood and deathly faeries. Just the sun, pouring into her veins. Filling and overflowing.

I am cool and fresh and alive.