I am NOT a fairy

I am NOT a fairy
or a witch.
or a baptist.

or any other imaginary creature.

On rare ocasions I am a muse...
but a surly and badly behaved one...

A muse that only eats pickles and herring out of jars and then whispers in your ear,
in a foggy breath.
Who sleeps sprawled and damp on manuscripts and leaves them blurred and barely legible.

I am the type to stuff the very last bit of your favorite ocher oil paint into my bellybutton affixing a glass belly dancing jem and then deny all paint tube disapearances.

I will leave my footprints, inky and dark across your promising sketches.

I will spend most of the night braiding your hair into a rat's nest sized knott.
I will bite you in your sleep, leaving odd little marks on your cheeks.
I will fill your ears with itching powder.
and give you hemmoroids.
I will leave tiny little come and drool stains on your embroidered bed pillows.

But I will love you too.
And take your hands and place them on your life so that your soul sings,
and you find your own magic.

And you will not care that I have melted crayons in your car.
Or filled your shoes with peanutbutter.
Or licked, exactly once, each and every m&m in the house.