I was born mid-dream, fevered and fairy-tailed. My mother taught me how to build things great like oak trees out of broken things. She would sit with me outside in the grass when I was younger, always singing lullabies to me calling them skeletons for the soul. I guess I’ve always been lonely. It never bothered me like other things. Like fractions and middle school boys and poetry better than mine that was carved into desks where I spent detentions. How I’d trace my fingers over those words, some four or five if they were lucky. Wondering what it was like to destroy a thing with something potent and true. With words that could make thirteen year old girls dream, cast from them the echoes they’ve been collecting. There are so many things I haven’t seen in a long time; like detention desk poetry. Like the stars spread generously above some pine trees sticking their necks out to see. Like soft clementine light dipping into the cracks of cobblestone.