she was not a lover,

not a warrior,

not a magician –

but a theif

a natural born theif

who invested in deep pockets, the pockets they don’t make for women’s clothes

a pirate with one leg

a raven

a crow

maybe even a swallow

collecting shiny things that caught her eye

to bring back home to the nest

that was already lined with the remnants of one cracked shell

but had never known the helpless cries or the warmth of a baby bird.

a moth

fluttering too close to the lamp

a moth

almost a mother

if the “er” had only been there

when she missed her carriage.

–

“I am no mother, I am no bride, I am King.”

~ Florence Welch