Marceline, you pale tall girl.
Though you are not a princess and raised by a King,
Though I have known you and had two pricks in my neck,
Although you float above the ground, you still laugh and
Write the heaviest songs and ride wolves in the forests
Of the one-quarter-less world.
Your tongue is entirely too long and how
Do you keep from biting your fruit?
How thin is the blood in your stomach
And what cave will you find yourself in tomorrow when the sun sets?
Do you feel Glob has ripped you off, you there, crying when short, with
Only a mad blue man with ever-growing beard and shiny golden crown
To give you half the childhood a damaged cookie would need to hold
Up a store with his chocolate chip companions?

Your father made a hell out of the ruined people,
Mushroomed souls gasping for breath as talking
Organs thresh the sidewalks made of sulfur.
And you are the inheritor of all that,
The forged jewel shaped just so to accommodate your
Floor-length abysmal hair.
How hot does that realm feel?
And are you maybe a princess after all,
But of the underplace where candies and swamp frogs
Go to wait in line for a chance at purgatory?

I cannot help but laugh when you come to me across the sugar field with to-the-shoulder Hepburn gloves, a white-dressed feminine parasol, and that yellow-as-the-sun sunhat, and still a knee scrape burning across your body that always reminds you how you are no longer human, but not to worry since all of those are gone.

Are you broken when everything else is?
Because your fingers feel so strong, as bat teeth,
When they run through my hair. And your shirt
Is so very comfortable when I go off to sleep.