Elisabeth Writing

I wrote this this morning. I’ve done a lot of healing from my own wounds and others. I’ve grown a lot in my spiritual practice. And still, it’s a blow to my pride when old habits and ego take over. My first instinct when in pain is to run and hide, like a wild animal. I self sabotage and poke holes into things until I’ve ruined them with my own mutilation. I don’t want to do this, don’t want to be this. I’ve grown and I’m still growing. I’ve learned to love myself, but at times it’s hard to understand why anyone else would. I think we’ve all felt this way. These poems and prose are my way of working through my issues and putting it on paper. It’s a journey of self discovery. Thank you for coming along and reading about it.

Sometimes I wonder who would love my true self, this beast with fangs and wings. I like to add lipstick and flowers, as if that could make me beautiful. My glamour shivers and ripples when the tears shimmer, rainbow oil puddles, horrifying and lovely.

I only wanted to be seen and loved for who I really am.

I felt like the Goblin King saw beneath the tulle and lace, the sparkle of jewels. Is that why I loved him so much? “You have looked into the void. I see it in your eyes.” I had. The gaping maw of grief and macabre truths, a black mirror, an upside down world where skeletons danced and witches cackled at the sound of bones. We had a monstrous love, because we were both monsters. 

I don’t know who I am now. Part beast, part Fey? Or perhaps a Fey beast, some twisted creation? How can you say I’m beautiful? If I am beauty, it is the sheen of dew on cobwebs; a black widow hovering on the periphery. Besides, he blows the candles out. No one wanted to see my face, placid or passionate. Isn’t that an answer? Is it? 

I know my feelings are overwhelming. I am a hurricane, a storm, a tsunami. I am a rainbow, I am a shooting star, I am a horned moon. I cry pearls and feel everyone’s pain. I laugh and emit light, dance around the weeping willows to cheer them. Is it too much? Am I? He never asked if I was ok, preferring to bury the sorrow in a shallow grave.

I self sabotage. I run. I don a mask and slip out the door before the clock strikes midnight and my charm fades. It will fade, won’t it? Will it? I slip away, before they can. I poke holes in the people I love, until they are filled with stars, and are swept away. They couldn’t hold on, those stars wanted the sky, and I’m alone again. I know I did it to myself, but I wanted to before they could.

Does he love me? Did he love me? Did any of them actually love me?

I don’t know who this version of myself is. I can feel your pain, his and hers and theirs. I write poetry to drown out the ocean of voices. I crave flowers on my body and in my blood. I want the kisses of true love, to wake my slumbering heart. I want everything and I’m afraid to want it. I’ve worked hard on myself and yet I have so much more learning and healing to do. I can feel the Fey and Venus and Cernunnos even now. I can feel my father ruffling my hair in the wind. I can feel my ancestors in the beat of my veins. I love myself: from the little girl in the woods with dirt on her face, to the woman with a garland in her hair and blades strapped to her thighs.

I love me.

I just don’t know if anyone else can.

But I have hope that maybe they will.