she’s the sort of person that bleeds chocolate milk when she gets hurt,
her blood sweet and syrupy out of pure spite.
she has a pet hummingbird,
the kind with ridiculously long tail feathers that can barely keep aflight
for more than a few thousand wingbeats at a time,
and when she swims he perches on her head,
his long plumes making two rivers behind her ears in the water.
sometimes i see them asleep in haunted alleys,
the kind where danger and beauty breed,
and she wears shoes with spines for heels.
he sleeps against her neck,
his vibrant blues and her moon-bleached, knotted hair tangled in the dark,
the bird dreaming of flutes and folklore,
the girl dreaming of a dry, desert mountain
where she could find a million bones to weave armor out of,
something with enough magic to protect them
in their drugged comas
and keep her heart from sparking too violently
and burning him down to scorching snow in the night.