Nomad girls are Lost Ones too,
with leaves at foot and crown;
they too seek shelter in the trees,
drink Red and Gold and Brown.
their circlets made of steam and rain,
their lashes powdered ash,
they’re firelight, they’re fox’s kill,
they’re blood and sweat and scratch.

Lost Boys fly forever, and crow the rising sun.
they play all day in Neverland, their laughter
but Lost Girls live underground:
they steal from hole to hole.
They drink the shadows, wear the night,
and paint their cheeks with coal.

And when the wind turns colder,
they split a doe and climb inside.
still-warm sinew
wraps their hands,
dead muscle soaks the light.

You’ll never tell what’s girl, what’s beast,
once bloody fur’s been trussed—
so think your happy thoughts, Lost Boy,
wish on your Fairy Dust.