Elisabeth Writing

Yesterday, I went back to that place. 

I was making Texas sheet cake. I looked up the recipe in my email, and it mentioned a name that made my crystal heart fall – hit – shatter. I could feel that pit of dark stars and the echoes of light grow and grow and grow until I was sucked into that place of remembering. The last time I made this cake was for someone else, in a place I now blur out on maps: “there be dragons (and bad dreams) here.” That’s all it is, all it can ever be.

Except… that skeleton key of mistakes and grief jiggled in the lock, and the heavy door I try to keep chained opened just a crack. Just enough to go back there.

I was making the cake for someone he loved. The kitchen smelled like cocoa and sugar, and I was kind of happy. And then he called. Soft murmurs turned to harsh words turned to screaming. My teeth were clenched, my veins throbbed, and I wanted to break every single plate that came to my hand. I wanted to walk through the shards on bare feet until I was bloody and screaming for a different reason. I think that would have hurt less than you; than us. I can’t even remember why we were fighting, as they all seemed to blur together into a maelstrom of sweetened insults and tears.

I dropped the cake. I started to cry. I was so fucking angry and sad. I felt like I’d never finish… anything. I felt like I could never do a damn thing right. Hadn’t I proved it? I couldn’t even making a fucking cake.

I couldn’t even make you happy.

Or me.

And when I baked that same cake last night, when I messed it up with my bittersweet tears and the ache of a lost pain that dripped, dripped, dripped into the pan? I lost it. I just lost it. I was back there in that other kitchen, the phone pressed to my ear, my angry and empty shout at the chocolate cake pieces that looked as disturbing as my own mind, macabre chunks of lost beauty, on the floor. I can still see your eyes, crackling with rage, insane. I can still see mine, light green reflections, miss Mad Hatter.

I drank your hibiscus tea, fell into that spell of silence, tangled with you in the sheets, my heart caught in the longing. Even now I wonder how that perfect courtship turned into rage, hate and pain. And yet, I was Echo. I was the fan and the  flame.

I hated myself. I struggle with that still, even these days. And so… maybe the oaths of love broken, the tears and bones you told me of – to show me your passion, to show me that I was in your very organs, your very bones… maybe that wicked kind of love felt more real. Not soft, kind – and left behind. It was maniacal, like blood promises and poison pacts. It was obsessive and with our addictions, we both understood that. Opiate lips and morphine eyes. I never felt more right, or more high, than curled with you in that smothered Yule darkness. 

I feel like I’ve made too many damn mistakes. I feel like a mess. I feel unworthy, a lot of nights, too ashamed to even face Moon Mother, turning my freckled face away. I’m afraid of losing myself again. I’m afraid of being hurt, like he hurt me. But worse, I’m afraid of being hurt by someone who never gave a damn. I’m afraid that maybe I’m just another goddamn distraction, like the people who used to cut off locks of my hair or pieces of my dress to pin to their collars: ‘See, look what I’ve got, a manic pixie dream girl souvenir. She’ll never notice, it’s just a tiny scrap.’ Except so many took, that there was barely fucking anything left.

Maybe I’ve been to the dark side of the moon too many times. Maybe I’m afraid all love is a lie. Maybe I’m afraid I’m not good enough for all that gorgeous, caring light. I got rid of the chains but they left scars. Sometimes I still choke, as if they’re still there around my throat, and I’m clawing to breathe, to just BE.

I ruined another cake last night. 

I’m here again in the shadows.

I wonder if anyone will try to find me.