They look in her face and call her sweet, bright names:
she’s the angel girl; she’s Galatea refined.
Her dresses are the rich red of summer cherries
and her curls are the colour of clover honey.
They want to eat her up, so she feeds them
with scraps from the palms of her hands.
She’s the hummingbird girl, sipping forever on sweet nectar.
She’s the butterfly girl, giddy on fermented fruit.
They’ll turn spiteful on her in the end –
when they take the first true bite and find her sour.
They’ll be bitter when they take the first true sip and find her flat.
So they’ll leave her to haunt the abandoned ballroom
and they’ll close the door on the dance.
That will teach her, tame her, keep her, melt her,
but she’ll always find a way back out.
And when she does, she’ll still wear the face of smooth marble,
two sparkling sapphire eyes and an abundance of honey hair;
but the only sweet things that remain about her are the jam stuck
to her hungry teeth and the chocolates hidden in her jewellery box.