There's footprints on her lips.
Not the delicate print of faerie feet,
But the hard hard bite of a boot.
Too big for her mouth,
Her teeth could never close on the sole.
They fenced it like a gate.

Her limbs are bricks, are stone,
Are wood. A bridge across the water,
She'll bear his weight.
So he can cross, to trees that whisper
Of marbles and lollipops, of childhood games.
So he can swing on the swing all day.

Her smile is whole. She despises those girls,
Their red chicken wire wrists,
Their bloodshot eyes.
She lies down across the river,
And offers him her hand.
So he can cross. So he can hear the trees.

There's footprints on her lips.
Someone's been walking there,
With marbles and lollipops in their pockets.
She offers a hand made of stone,
And teeth like bricks.
Wooden fingers with dirty nails.

There's river on the carpet, water on the bed.
Crashing through the windows of her bedroom.
Someone's knocking on the door,
She tastes boots in her mouth
And turns the handle with fingers made of wood
And a hand of stone.
Bricks breathe in her chest.