There is all the warmth of humanity

glowing in her eyes, but I

know her for what she is:

changeling child,

with her veins crackling with

the blood of the Fair Folk and

some inherent hint of cruelty

lurking in the corner of her mouth.

She sparkles in the morning sun like

razor-blades or broken glass;

pretty enough to draw the eye,

but wicked to the touch.

The Seelie Court might call her home,

but she is too much

one of us some days;

she rose up too close to the fire

and the embers of humanity flew up

and caught in her eyes.

No matter that she glitters sometimes

like faerie lights on the horizon,

drawing us to our doom;

some seed of humanness has sprouted

in the caverns of her heart, unfurling

like a night flower.

(Home is where the heart is, and

hers has–in its belligerence–

burrowed its way between human tragedy

and George Lucas.)

She might laugh as I burn

and then cry over the ashes.

The fey are funny like that.