Elisabeth Writing

I feel like the grey is burrowing under my skin. My veins are not the blue of summer midnights, but the grey slush of breaking winter dreams. Sometimes I believe I am like the month of March; a few days of fake Spring, making people emerge with hope, and then spoiling their smiles with snowfall and wind and tears. An entirely unwanted month, is March. And I… I’ve felt such a way, too. 

Do you know that pair of shoes you saw at the store? The fun colorful ones you swear you’ll wear? Those pink vinyl boots with the patches that make you statuesque? The stilettos with golden snakes curling around your ankle? The mermaid scales of blue and green that climb up your delicate arch? They’re so beautiful and unique, you think. You’ll absolutely wear them one day. And then… they get shoved to the back of the closet. They’re too tall, too unique, too out there, too uncomfortable. You might look at them once a year, debate throwing them out, and then convince yourself that there will be an occasion one day to pull them out. Except, there never is, is there? Some days I feel like that, too.

Remember when you were a child, and the snow was falling quickly outside of your window? You pressed your face to the glass, fogging it with your squeal of excitement, and then drew a smiley face with your finger. A snow day, a snow day, a snow day! You think. Those days were so innocent. You watch the TV to see if there are cancellations – none so far, but you’re hopeful. All that winter magick can’t be for nothing, right? You go to sleep with a smile perched on your face, curled tight beneath the blankets, fingers crossed that tomorrow you’ll sleep in and have hot chocolate and waffles and go sledding and… But your mother wakes you up and tells you school is on. The damn plows were too good, too fast. You want to cry but you’re not a baby anymore, you think. That keen stab of disappointment hurts, though, as you pack your book bag and sigh heavily. Remember? Sometimes, I feel like the snow day that never was. 

Love letters pressed with lavender and rose petals. Is it the scent of hiraeth? You wonder. All those words in endless script, your fucking heart splattered across the page in pieces, every goddamn promise you both broke, every time you said the words “I love you” – even when it became a lie, or a crutch. Every tear and blood stained kiss. The implosion of a future that will never be; possibly never could have been, really. Love goddess hearts and innocent eyes: do you remember that blue green sheen? Of course, that was before… When you burn the letters to ash, I burn with them. I always did. And I always will. 

It’s just that some days, I’m tired of trying to convince myself that I’m worth a damn. It just that, some days, I’m tired of trying to show the world why they should love me. It’s just that, some days, I feel like if I left, no one would give a damn. It just that, some days, I am tired of fighting for a kind word or even vague acknowledgment. It’s just that, some days, I feel like the dissatisfaction of March; or those shoes in the back of the closet; or the snow day you mourned; or the love letter you didn’t. It’s just that… some days, I wonder what I am.