Behind the Door

The ache wakes her,
her breasts so hard and tender.
Something wrong with the nipples.
How they pull inside her
when she’s cold
like fists.

If it isn’t breasts, it’s hips.
Femurs lengthen in the dark hours.
At times, she limps.
The socket
no longer fits.

Changeling.
Legs so long, she sees
into the eyes of the elders,
combs hair across her face.

Tears and blood,
she hadn’t asked for this.
Childbody lost
as if the fairies came in her sleep.
Left her with this stranger.

At night, when bones grow,
when fur spreads
like moss over crevices,
when secrets bleed
into sheets, she presses
an edge, just here,
sharp, against
her own absence.

Rose by Larissa Monique Hauck