Elisabeth Writing

I’m sorry. 

I have apologies to make, to the people I loved, and to the people I didn’t. Peony hearts don’t thrive on blood, despite what I heard from the cruel witch in the forest. I nearly let it die, soaked in rouge. I mistook that warmth for life, even as petals withered and curled in death. I was wrong.

I’m sorry to my Warrior Father. I wish I could have used divination to see the cancer before it took hold. I wish I’d told you more often how much I loved and admired you. Do you swim with the blue whales and wheel in whimsical wonder? Do you take flight with the ospreys and crow your delight? You have a place at my altar, and within me, always. I’m sorry I wasn’t a better daughter. 

I’m sorry, to the Wizard King. You looked magnificent on the cliffs, your voice not drowning even with the surf crashing and sirens singing. Your incantations made me stir in my slumber, awakened and – hungry. I lapped at your gilded magic and smooth skin. I took more than was offered. I broke the staff you used to summon storms – and did so with my feminine, quiet laugh. You cursed me when I plucked the topaz out of your rusted crown. Perhaps that’s why I still think of you, the conflagration.

I’m sorry to Marsyas, for the way I curled within shadows as you battled Apollo (another lover, always). My sister nymphs declared his victory, for who seeks to challenge a god? You. You did. Oh Marsyas, I remember the ballads you spun about my lips, my warmth, my long fingers in your curls. My reckless kiss. The still pool of prophecy, head in my lap, golden eyes a treasure I sought to keep, locked on mine for the rest of our days. As the sun set, you wept pearls for sorrow and joy. Did you see the end even then? I strung them around my neck, admired them in the flash of light and auguries. They looked so beautiful with the dew in my eyes, nymph tears clinging to rainbows and luminosity. Your body flayed and hung, I wailed in agony. I still leave anemones at the river you became. Metamorphosis. That was always us. 

I’m sorry to the Alchemist. I can still recall your workshop, bubbles and potions, darkness and light. Calcination, dissolution, separation, conjunction, fermentation, distillation, coagulation. When you saw me in my corset and cobwebs, you had to have me. I would be your Diana, the crescent moon to your Helios, your Sun; I’d be your Venus and you my Mars. You’d take my gossamer and turn it into gold. You lit up like Angel magic skylines, searching always for the Philosopher’s Stone.  I thought you liked the way I dripped moonlight like opals, the pieces of my frantic wings as I beat at the windows, wailing for freedom; adding components to your cauldron and vials. It was only once I fled on Icarus-like wings that I saw you. Too late, too far. My “cage” was always open. 

I’m sorry to the Elf with the lavender eyes. Mired in grief, I let that evil witch in the woods pierce my neck with rotting, vampiric teeth – and my heart didn’t beat. Not dead or alive, really. Undead. The peony blackened, didn’t ache and yearn and cry. Blessed peace. And so I loved you as much as this still, frozen heart could love anyone. I liked the way we danced in the frozen tundra and on graffiti scrawled pipes, your lanky body full of grace as I slipped and laughed. You caught me with warm hands, pining pinnacle pupils, voice soft and – ardent. Giggles, gasps, hands in blonde locks, a demand and a plea. I offered my temple of sunflowers and roses, my husky prayers – but it wasn’t enough. I knew. And I let you in. I wonder perhaps if you were my greatest sin. 

I’m sorry to the Warlock. I looked into deep eyes, dark with fervor, and cast a spell. No pink candles or cloves, cinnamon sticks or primroses. I drew you close with mauve polish, the scrape of teeth on my full lips, a green and greedy gaze from beneath soot lashes and sparkles, the bite of nails at your tender nape, rug burns on knees. I don’t blame you for the hex or jinx. Not really. But – again? I’ll steal the rusted nails from your enemy’s coffin, place it in a jar with your name, call down hellfire and dragons. Honey dearest, don’t even try. The Witch has come alive.

I’m sorry to the Werewolf. I still remember the spotlight when I saw you that first time, all the heavy sadness in lethargic jade eyes beneath amber brows I wanted so badly to trace. My heart fluttered, frantic, a hummingbird in my chest. How did you bring it back to life? Quiet and collected as you sipped your chai, watched with a gleam as my petals unfurled, small green shoots of life: hope, desire, unbridled passion and wonder. I saw no hint of fur or fangs – but the horned orb in the sky might have been why. I know you were a victim of other magics, curses, and anguish. They made you into what you are. Moon madness descended on us both, howling and clawing. Bellowing beasts. We left scars, on ourselves and on each other. Tears and apologies, lies and gifts. We are one another’s affliction. I am your full moon, and you are mine. We have to let go, for always. I don’t ever wish you pain. Just a path forward in dappled sunlight, 9 years without human flesh, an end to the lycanthropic bane. 

I’m sorry to the pixie sister with bright doe eyes and silver laughter, I’m sorry to the dryad mother playing her wooden flute in haikus of sorrow, I’m sorry to the forest nymph with freckles and gold flecks in turbulent seas, I’m sorry to the peaceful mermaid in her palace of choppy oceans, I’m sorry to the others I hurt, to the hearts I took and broke.

I’m sorry not sorry to the ones who stomped through my midnight gardens and ripped the wildflowers and herbs apart with their teeth, accusing me of witchcraft and evil because I was different. I’m not sorry to the ones who rappelled to my ivory tower only to take what I didn’t give – even as I screamed and bled and begged. I’m not fucking sorry to the ones who stroked my cheek and spoonfed me honeyed lies, only to watch me choke on the poison with glee. I’m not sorry that I’ve built a fortress to keep you out, that I’ve got Cerberus and Spirits guarding my bed. I’m not sorry that I’ve kept my heart on ice. I’m not sorry that I wouldn’t mind blood on your lips and in my words. 

I’m just (a faerie-witch-succubus-vampire) — a woman.