Elisabeth Writing

I long to be a love goddess, with raven dark wings, a rose quartz wand, a crown of peonies and magic sizzling like lightning at my fingertips. There is the magic we know, and the magic I crave. The magic we know is intention and rituals, candles and glass jars, obsidian and red salt, moon phases and tarot cards. And yet I yearn for the magic I have dreamt of, where I can make petals unfurl with a flick of my fingers, and send dreams or nightmares with a twitch of my freckled nose. The magic where I can send storms clashing in the sky, or conjure wings with a twirl of my skirt. The magic where I make dreams come true. 

That, above all else, is what I long to do. 

I would fly on these fragile feathers to the broken hearts that cry in their sleep, aching for a love that is no longer theirs to hold. I would transform their hearts to ruffled dahlias of rainbows to ease the pain, if only for a while. Their tears turned to precious stones they could clutch in their hands to placate  them. And when they awoke, their hearts anatomically correct once more, they’d be lighter and more free than they could ever remember being.

I’ve been called a love goddess. And I would live up to that name. I’d make a pathway of comets for the star crossed lovers. I would fashion my own arrows from birch trees and amethysts. I would  strike down those with veiled eyes and ivory tower hearts, until the drawbridge came down and they found their souls aligned with their mate. Twin flames would be real, and the losses of before would be worth it. There would be no more drowning in amber whiskey bottles or journals filled with nostalgia. There would only be light, and joy. Sometimes the storms would come, because a beautiful love is not a perfect one, but those storms would be weathered and the shoots and seeds of new growth would spread. 

And lastly, I would burn my own words to ash. For what does a fairy godmother need with regrets? What does a love goddess need with a past, and the burn of nostalgia? My wings, wands, and my faithful black dog would be my companions on these fulfilling journeys. Sprites and pixies and mermaids I would meet along the way. I might not have my own flame dancing in the wind, waiting for mine to join, but I would have a purpose. A goal. A life. 

But I am not magic, in that way. I am not a goddess with her own temples, springing from sea foam and shells. I am a human woman with bittersweet memories, a love lost that I cannot seem to move past, and journals filled with poetry I will never share with the world. I wish I could heal heartache. I wish I could find everyone’s perfect match. I wish, at least, I could give you better dreams. Alas, I am only me. Maybe one day… you’ll love all of it, regardless.