Pretty-Moon

If you like butterfly wings and sparkly things that taste like Birthdays and Christmas in one, Or big balloons in Saturday morning cartoons, And all of the colours under the Sun, If you know about floaty pink dresses and long tresses that are owned by little princess's, Or the misty haze of long Summer days spent banging your jelly-sandals along the hot tarmack; surrounded by the smell of plastic shoe and barbeque, And catching rain in your mouth even though you're more of an 'Oasis' person, If you remember grass stained knees and muddied tee's from hill-rolling across the ocean, Or tasting the rainbow for the first time while skipping

Does it hurt when you can hear the skeleton dancing in your wardrobe; the clackity clack of bones on wood? And do you lie awake at night incase your name should be called; your name, not hers? Have you ever worried about killing something you love deeply; slaughtering it with your big hands in a moment of terror? Have you ever wondered if the white rabbit will ever come for you, or are you just not the 'right' Alice? Does fear of pain make the pain worse (and is this any reason to hold back)? Do you hear the flutter of butterfly wings in the early hours, and wish on them like fallen eye lahes? Have you ever told a story, only to find that no

Julie isn't dead, She's just not alive, Only when I say, Will she not have survived, Julie isn't sleeping, She isn't in a slumber, I know she's awake, Even though everyone else may wonder, Julie isn't in the sky, 'Cause I can see her on the ground, I can see her with my own two eyes, But she doesn't make a sound, Julie doesn't live in a coffin, But she can't live in the house, Because Mum said it would be dirty; She said the dead attract mouse,