The Stars Under the Roof

you’re never too sure where they come from when they come for you at night. you aren’t even really aware of their arrival, the split second between absence and presence, just that when they are there they are there and you cannot recall a time when they weren’t. you can feel it, the weight of their tiny bodies filling the room, the collective chorus of a thousand wings beating as one. the ones that are closest to you rest on your chest and on your chin and smile at you with their huge round eyes and shapeless mouths. they smile at you and stroke your skin and the one that hovers by your face asks you if you are ready yet. your answer is never positive but it sounds less like a no every time. you know what they are offering and you want it, you dream of it, you crave it with every fibre of your being that isn’t shaking with unadulterated terror. the fair folk never offer anything to anyone for free and you want to know what the strings are before they hang you by them and make you dance. you aren’t fool enough to think you’ll always have the strength to say no; you aren’t sage enough to realise it doesn’t matter. you’ve been under the sway of the fae for longer than you will ever know, since you were tiny and a child and wished for something more. it’s the wish that damns you, in the end.

you’re never too sure where they go after you refuse to be taken with them but you’re always inexplicably sad to watch them leave. something empties in your chest as the chorus quiets and, like stars in the early morning sky, the faeries vanish, one by one, and you are left alone.