Graveyard faeries rise from the dust above your lover's grave. They are made of salty tears, fresh dirt and decaying flowers. They sleep quietly during the day, safe within fresh funeral bouquets and occasionally, when restless enough, you may see them lazily stretched across gravestones or tree branches. Graveyard faeries smell of patchouli oil, oakmoss and sweet roses and are only the size of your pinkie finger. They celebrate across gravestones till dawn. They reach out from behind cemetery gates as you pass, calling out in sweet, echoed whispers. Don't be frightened. They only ask you bring flowers during your next visit, for they must rest. Their skin is pale grey and shimmery and upon their backs stretch the battered wings that look of moths. These creatures only appear within the period of the waxing moon. They form under the new moon and will dissipate into the earth on the night of the full moon to rejuvenate the following month. Next time you pass a cemetery watch closely, you might see them celebrating there last awake when the moon is round and high. They are: the graveyard watchers, star gazers, key holders, soul protectors.
I am day and night, two polar opposites clashed. A part of me loves sunshine, toy boxes, polaroid colored beach days, fairy tales, dressing up, picnics, day dreams, tea cups, lace and frill, and pretty, sweet desserts. Yet there is a clashing side I can't explain. Everything pretty must be destroyed. Blood splatters white clothings, abused dolls and taxidermy butterflies hang from my ceilings, nightmares plague my sleep, and fairy tales never, never end happily.