Perhaps it’s time to face the truth, however unpalatable: maybe I was always meant to be a fling, and never meant for forever.
I might be easy to fall in love with, but I know damn well I’m harder to stay in love with. Ask the men who gave me diamonds and pearls. Ask those same men, who tried to bury me in a shallow grave. Ask the men who worshiped me in Yulemas light, impatient fingers and clever tongues, until the candles burnt out, and flickers of darkness licked their souls. Ask them about how they abandoned their posts and fled for the dawn, unable to face my shadows – or theirs. Ask the people, the world, how they loved the eye of the storm, but shrieked when my hurricane was upon them once more, unable to withstand my storm or my poetry.
Perhaps they clung too hard, ivy vines around silver willows, and they didn’t see the roots rotting, didn’t hear the sputtering breaths of life that diminished with each second. They replaced their hollows with dandelions and drugging kisses: delusional daydreamers. I warned them that I don’t wear my Sunday best and attend sermons about hellfire; I’m at my crushed pink velvet altar, sunlight in my tilted eyes, as I talk to Aphrodite, Hecate, Cernunnos, the Fey and my Ancestors. I don’t drop donations in the box at the chapel; I leave honey and milk for the gods who shape my path, who walked this weary road with me – the long road back to myself. I warned them that I don’t wear pristine dresses and high heels, whip up pot roasts and meat loaf, with the proper shade of lipstick for a good girl to wear. No, I’m dancing barefoot in the kitchen in my crop tops and high waisted miniskirts, flour on my face as I make concoctions and confections of sweetness and light, squealing when egg yolk splatters the freckles across my nose, bright red lips a sinful color (appropriate, as I write and speak sins). They’re easier than praying. I whispered false promises under my breath. I have a halo of hellfire and hibiscus, not angelic light.
The Goblin King perched a diadem of thorns on my head, glamoured as pink sapphires. I never noticed the blood slipping onto my cheeks, caught in my lashes; I was too caught up in his smiles and dimples. I didn’t mind the bruises or the chains, but slashes through my words caused my chest to cave in. I’ve straddled dragons between my thighs and taken to the swollen skies, but that same lightning that lit up our nights sent us spinning to the earth, scorched and broken. Wizards, troubadours and fauns have tried to harness this Faery Queen, this woman that I was and the woman I’ve become. I wonder if someone will perch morganite crystals on my brow; I wonder if I’ll think they’re thorns.
Forever sounds foreign to me, a buttery pastry on my tongue that I long to taste. Maybe one day I will.
Elisabeth Writing 