Elisabeth Writing

I brushed my hands across your brow, saw blood on my fingers. I wondered if I was the one with the knife, or if you had razors hidden in apple petal curls. Did you ever write letters just to watch them burn and sizzle in the flames? I wonder at the words eaten by fire beasts and salamanders:

“Whore.

I miss you.

I hate you. I’m glad you don’t speak to me.

Could we be friends, do you think?

Fuck you. You never deserved me.

You did shine. You always did.

Forget me, like I’ve forgotten you.”

I imagine the way they’d jump out, ember stars, and settle like burns and magnificence on my winter moon skin. They asked why my moon had pits and craters, why my skin was marred. I tell them that words settled like fatal flaws and freckles, marking me forever more with grey imperfection. Yours always hit the hardest: craters of love, loss, sex and anger. They ask why I diminish into shadows slowly, after being bright and full, shining without apathy, my face a beacon of hope. I’m a silver dream, inspiring poets with my smile in their sleep. I tell them that for that brief magnificence, my own shadows are the price.