Auto-Changeling

(The following is a poem inspired by the picture that follows, which was provided as part of our weekly WordCrafters meeting and may inspire a further development of what happens. Next. Maybe. Perhaps. *sneaks off to make notes for a new draft*)

 

Me—half of me, or a twin, or that last shocked reflection—

I’m still in the bedroom, still tugging the chenille with my toes

Or…the changeling? The one who hit the glass with her fist.

I pull my punches, I know what mirrors cost.

She hit with all our strength but what she broke was us.

We shattered apart like glass paper dolls.

Who really cares for more than one of a set?

 

Thorns scratch, grass itches, legs brush my forearms.

At least I’m dressed, not naked—pillow sham shirt,

Billowed curtain skirt—she ripped and wove, sheared and stitched

Whatever I left or was part of my room.

My room!

My house!

My parents!

Who don’t dance, don’t fly, don’t sting—don’t bite.

Whose poison my body tolerates.

Whose dead grass scores my brand-new skin.