Elisabeth Writing

I’m the villain in your stories.

Do you tell them that I was wrapped in black velvet and satin, my breasts pushed up by the corset top so that everything else faded but your desire? Did you say that my bright jade irises distracted you from the fangs behind my smile? When spinning tales about me do you say that I purred, that my laugh was husky in my throat? That my perfume wafted like opium smoke and took you under? 

You say I tricked you with wide eyes, innocent: the luminous sheen, the spill of them like quiet rain. I was vulnerable in the moment, when I arched my neck in gentle submission. A trick of the light, or crocodile tears? Isn’t that what you say, to get some guileless sleep? You hate to recall the way I tripped over my words, or how under your potent gaze I bloomed into peony petal pink. It wasn’t an act… but I suppose you might wonder about that.

When you dissect our meeting, do you say that the ebony velvet of my floor length dress hissed across a marble floor? My lips, bloody, curled in a serpentine smirk. My pale hands slithered across your chest, and you wondered if I even had a heart in mine? And then you forgot to check, caught up in the sunflowers tattooed on my thigh, the hibiscus heart on my hip, the roses crawling over my ribs; your fingers tracing every color and line. I took your mouth like candy, cocaine and champagne laced lipstick. You swore it was true, hand on the Bible as you pinned the poster for me onto the weeping willow: me, the wanted woman and a $10,000  reward of gold. In truth, you don’t like to remember that I liked pastels and florals, that my smile was always broad and infectious. I tipped my head back and the sound of my laugh made you grin, Eisley’s lyrics tinkling through the car speakers. You grabbed my waist, spun and dipped me in the mellow afternoon light because you liked the way I clutched onto you and shrieked, my lips that – still – taste like peach. 

I’m the witch, brewing potions in my large cauldron, tossing in brains or eye of newt with a rich, perfect cackle. Nails and grave dirt and broken-mirror glass, whispering hateful words about you to my ancestors at the altar. That’s the painting you’re making with dreary black and grey watercolors. Except you know I made lavender, cinnamon, clove and violet satchels; shells, candy and rose quartz pieces, with hushed prayers and wishes of happiness. You know that I wept at the jewels you adorned me in, larimar and diamonds, how they draped my hands and collar, feeling your touch like a pleasant kiss on my dawn drenched soul. With you, in pink feathers and masks, I kicked up my feet and danced. I’m not the evil you want to believe me to be, but if you need to say I am, to pretend, to stop thinking about our midnight caresses in the backseat, Lana crooning love songs, picnic baskets and swollen seas, then, please… 

But you can’t just forget about the way I sobbed in your embrace, the way I shattered into fragments of a girl, even before the grief set in.

But you can’t forget about the way I nursed you to health, lips chapped from bites and fear, the bruises on you deep purple, the same color beneath my turbulent eyes, catching on every scraped and raw inch. 

But you can’t forget about the way we waltzed in snow under Carolina stars, our smiles and words as hushed and tender as those fallen flakes. 

But you can’t forget about the way your eyes tracked wood nymphs and pixies, predatory and hungry, and I had to pretend – for years – that I didn’t see, or even care, as I pulled up the parapet – inch by torturous inch. No, it’s late, please don’t lie about this.

But unless you’re the one with the lilac eyes… the one who needed the words I never gave, though they were there, hiding… I don’t blame you for the silence, or the thunder.

To all of you: 

I’m your villain. 

I wish I wasn’t. 

And yet if it makes it easier, makes the day flow better, to forget me and move on with your life… I won’t get on my knees and beg you to see me in another way. If it helps, I guess I’m saying I understand. I’m sorry. And maybe one day… 

One day…

We’ll all be free.