Fairy Tale

Maybe we’ll fall in love,

let our dreams intertwine,

let our laughter, warm our cold

cynical, resignations.

Maybe we’ll make children

out of clay and heat them with fear.

Maybe they’ll be nothing we ever wanted to be

and we’ll resent their budding dreams.

Maybe they’ll boil, maybe the world will eat them up

and we’ll never see them again.

Maybe the world will eat us up too if we let it.

If we ask, so very nicely.

Maybe we’ll fall in love

and we’ll build a little house.

Maybe its walls will drip with honey

and its beds will run with sweat.

Maybe we’ll rot in that house,

when we wilt, and the winters hurt our bones

when the walls no longer drip with honey

but buzz, alive with infestation,

with all the years and the words and the tears.

Infested with us.

Maybe our memories will become a ghost

haunted by its own faceless vanity.

Maybe the ghost will scream and curse

maybe it’ll know what we did wrong.

Maybe we’ll fall in love.

Maybe we’ll only fall.