Elisabeth Writing

My dearest friend,

Tell me… do you ever feel forgettable? I don’t mean the kind of forgetting where it’s amnesia like, and you’re just a hollowed out version of a girl they can no longer recall.

I mean that slow sort of forgetting, where you fade like the roses in a bridal bouquet, once young and in bloom, now just crumbled petals in an empty journal, cut out photos and a heart harpooned. But I guess to them it was just another day in June.

Darling, do you know how many men have slid to my feet and said those thunderous words: “I love you”? 10, yes 10, men. Though now I wonder if they ever meant it. Was I just a moon in the sky, there and then gone with the new moon tide? Even I can’t remember every moon change, phase, I’ve ever trapped in this written form. Was I just their crème brûlée, and they broke my skin with their utensil, gorged on my inner poetry and desires?

No, better yet, a diary they found; curled within my arms on a restless night when they couldn’t sleep and I, lost, in dreams…

And how they feasted on my words! They flipped pages with haste and ripped them in their eagerness to see. The words on my thin skin, how they traced them with light fingertips as if I wouldn’t wake. Pressed flowers in the pages, tear stains and ink running, pieces of letters and beautiful poems.

I saw them rip out my own pages, place their bookmarks in the heavy crevice between silence and screams. They took pieces of me in their pockets, and then washed coats and jeans until it was only a ruined little scrap of who I used to be.

Was it so forgettable? Was I? Once upon a time you worshiped my prose and – me. Fed me my own entries with your lips and teeth, with your songs and your guitar strings and your paintings…

I had to remake it every time I faced yet another dead end, every time you or I left. Sometimes I had to take the little you left and bind it again with leather and string.

You seemed obsessed.

But it was so easy to forget.

Was I so easy to forget?

You just left.

Or you let me leave.

I want to set fire to my past, to my poems, to my journals, to this goddamn heartfelt diary. You don’t deserve to be immortalized by me.

Kind and loving friend, you’re true and sweet.

Would you promise to remember me?

Yours,

Fey Queen