Elisabeth Writing

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I am probably one of the most sentimental people you’ll ever meet. I rarely hold onto items and clothing, though. For me, it’s all about words: the ones I have written and the ones people have written to me –  and about me. I have binders full of letters, carefully preserved. I have boxes filled with cards, going back to when I was just a child. I have emails and screenshots dating back to the MySpace era. I have plastic tubs filled with journals, half filled, about any number of subjects. I have online blogs that make me cringe and laugh whenever I read them. And I’m happy about all of it. Because one day, the only thing you might have left of a person is their handwriting on a birthday card, now tear-streaked with grief. I think I’m lucky to have kept these memories close, to have had the foresight of sorrow and wistful dreams and loss. If I came across a genie, one of my wishes would be to return to the sweetest memories of my life, to relive them once more, to wallow in them. Of course, that might be another addiction to battle with, in the end. I’d have to set parameters: only once a year, only a certain number of times, only a set amount of time. It would be easy to become lost in the past. So perhaps it’s best I do not have a genie in a lamp. The only thing that can truly transport me back to another time, another world, another consciousness, beyond genies and my gluttony for a trove of words? 

Music.

(NOTE: this is about exes and love so maybe skip this if you don’t want to hear it. Thanksss!)

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“I Want You” by the Offspring –  Everything has changed. Everything. It only took a pill bottle, whisky, the loss of the boy I loved, my father’s cancer, and threats of a psychiatric hospital to get here, now. I am 22, and I am nearly a year sober. I feel free, in a way I haven’t since I first picked up a bottle of Smirnoff Ice and found myself spiraling. If you’d told me a year and a half ago that I had to get sober, I would have laughingly twirled away from you, catching the bottle of Jack Daniels in my fingers and spinning, drunk, under a moon swollen with fear. Because what did you know? What did you know about me, about the loss I’ve endured, about the way alcohol is a carousel of convivial laughter and a blessed balm to my own misdoings? Can’t you begin to understand that this is the numbing relief I’ve been looking for? Not the grey novocaine of depression, but blurred lights and dancing and wet kisses from mouths on faces I’d forget by morning. Yes… that’s what it once was. And now I saw it as it was – a trap. A beautiful and seductive trap, a lyre playing Pan beckoning me to a bottomed out pit with spikes ready to impale. To kill. 

In a way, it did kill off a part of me. And here I am, trying to find the rest of my broken bits and lodge them together again, Humpty Dumpty split from alcoholism and defeat. 

And that’s when I met Thomas. Or, I should say, met him again. Although would anyone call our first meeting a true one? When I was laced up in my maroon and black corset, stumbling in my high heels, drunkenly giggling, stopped by a boyish smile outside of a bar? I don’t even know that girl. I don’t want to know her. And besides, after that night, we only saw each other once. There was nothing there for us in that brief encounter, and we parted ways without regret. Although… perhaps, maybe, a little regret? After all, he was the one who popped up many moons later, telling me that he’d seen a movie with faeries in it, and that had reminded him of me. How could I resist? Being associated with faeries was my Achilles heel. And when he rode up on his motorcycle on that Fourth of July, who was I not to kiss him under the fireworks, living out my own romantic movie meet-cute? Who was I not to grip onto him in the sudden lightning storm, feeling the leather jacket between my fingers and the electricity brewing all around us? Who was I not to let myself get scorched by the feeling of his hands pulling me closer, the soft purr of ardor in my own throat?

Who was I not to begin to fall in love? 

This time, I swore, this time I’ll do it right. 

I was determined to be the best version of myself, whoever she was. AA had cracked the mask I’d had on, and I didn’t like the vacant-eyed beast I saw beneath. The cruelty, the selfishness, the ego; all of it made me want to run away screaming. How had I ever thought I deserved love? Me, with my  thoughtless gifts, my thieving fingers grabbing onto anything I wanted (or thought I wanted)? Me, running away from the people who only wanted to help me? Me, who would slap their hands away and bare my teeth like a cornered animal, because I didn’t want to see that mask chip away?

Did that girl deserve love? I didn’t think so. 

So no, I didn’t want to remember that girl, see that girl, be that girl.

I didn’t want anyone else to see, either.

And now, well, wasn’t Thomas my chance to redeem myself in the eyes of Venus herself? To be the kind of woman and girlfriend that I’d never been to Elijah, or to any of the men after?

Unless Thomas didn’t want me. 

Unless his heart was promised elsewhere. 

Unless he didn’t want mine. 

I wondered: could you seduce a man into loving you? Was it wrong to try? 

Thomas and I swam in the quarry in the moonlight, the silver light like a baptism; a beginning. I watched the goosebumps rise on his chest as I ran my nail over his collarbone. My full mouth tipped up at the corners when I saw the wary desire in his summer pond eyes. We were in the shallows, and our feet could touch the silty bottom, so I wasn’t afraid of going under. At least, not in the physical sense. I could feel his body tense and tremble with restraint, and it made me feel like a goddess in this manmade quarry. He was worshiping me.

I drove him to distraction with my bedroom eyes. He was always on the brink of losing control, and I would stop, just in the nick of time. 

I wasn’t trying to be cruel. Although at times I felt like a goddess, I was also so terribly human. And… he was the first person I’d dated once getting sober. I found that without the blanket of alcohol, I was nervous, and so very, very vulnerable. My past would reach up with black tentacles and drag me back into the deep, cold waters of nightmares and violence. 

Sometimes I still woke, screaming. 

My mind went in circles as I watched him slumber, peacefully. He was completely unaware that I was not in some dreamscape wonder, that I had his cool white sheets clutched to my breasts, watching the moon and trying to rid myself of all the thoughts in my head.

And then Thomas would pull me close and it felt, for a moment, that there was no safer place than in his arms. Even dreams with teeth couldn’t bite me. 

And so why not let his teeth at my throat?

I wrapped myself up like a gift, shaking a bit as I dabbed jasmine at my throat and pinned a bow in my hair.

I wonder if he felt the change in me? A dam about to break. My golden hair was a curtain around us. I could feel the hammering of his heart as he traced the scalloped edges of the corset.

His lupine blue eyes clashed with my ocean green. There was nothing but a wolf’s hunger in those eyes. All the teasing, the waiting, the slow seduction – I’d made him feral. It was like I’d stripped the humanity from him, and all that was left was need. 

Hands ripped and clawed

A gasp into his mouth, my body shaking with the same urgency. I felt like I’d never been with anyone else, that he was taking me to new heights, new horizons.

I wondered if he could see. If he could see the way he’d become part of my life, a part of me. 

I knew, then. 

Could he see? Could he see the petals I’d plucked, asking if he loved me or loved me not (though I was terrified to ever find the answer, stopping before I could know)? Did he know?

I was saying: here is the new me, please have me, please want me, please love me. I’m worthy now

I’m worthy now?

Aren’t I?

The portcullis was lowered… if only he’d try. 

But he said he didn’t want –

No. I know he wants me, in whatever way. I won’t fight. I won’t. 

But you still –

No. Don’t even think it. 

But you guys aren’t even official-

It’s only a matter of time. 

Shut up brain, you’re making this harder than it has to be. Can’t you just listen to this heart for once? Can’t we just be swept away in the romance and the soft touches and avid gazes? 

But –

No. 

“I Want You Bad” by the Offspring is playing in my mind. It’s his favorite band. 

Thomas is an engineer, not a poet. He is shaggy hair and motorcycles, anime and hard rock. He is extrapolating on the beauty and alchemy of chemistry while my gaze snags on his tribal tattoos and delightful light eyes. He is the kind of guy who is hanging out with the rockstars backstage. He’s… different. And I like different. I like wrapping my legs around him and stroking his face, I like that his eyes are in no way Lion-like, I like that he smiles with half of his mouth curled up, as if he knows something I don’t. 

I like that I’m willing to put my heart and soul in his hands. 

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“Japanese Gum” – Her Space Holiday

I remember.

A heart racing with music, standing in front of a boy in a dark blue room, golden eyes slowly falling over my body, like the sun itself is rising and setting, and I can feel that gaze like warmth. How he unwrapped me like a present, hands sure and strong, kind and wanting. A moonlit beach, the ghosts shrieking at us, his sister grinning and screaming with me, the boy running behind us. Avilles street, bougainvillea, two hands clasped so tight, licking lips smudged with fudge. Halloween, a cat and Alex from A Clockwork Orange, touches with autumn need. A whirlwind of angry words, the fight ending with a simple, “Dolly, stop. Come here.” Lost in jaguar eyes for hours, in a quiet room or a car or a sapphire beach or a church’s garden. The plans to run away to California, to get married. The last time, that indifference melting into glacial green pools, the mark of his love now a brand.

I want to stay here forever. I don’t know if it’s only 10 seconds or an eternity, but somehow I let go. I avert my eyes, so he can’t see the tears welling there, about to spill over. As soon as he sits down, I’m spewing every single word I can think of. Let him remember the tortured nights, my betrayals; let him hate me. It might be easier. 

The words are unraveling at his feet, and I can’t stop myself. I don’t even know what I’m saying, really, just that I feel as if I am coming undone, too. I’m an alcoholic, I’m bipolar, I’m so humiliated by my past, I’m trying to be better, I’m happier without alcohol, I don’t expect your forgiveness but I needed to apologize, I’m learning, I’m ashamed, I’m on meds now, I can see my issues, I’m in therapy, I’m working the steps, I’m just… so… sorry… When they are unspooled, and I am empty, I take a deep breath. My shame is spread-eagle on the table, and I don’t want to see it, so I keep my eyes downcast, waiting for the hatred or the apathy or whatever it is I deserve. Not forgiveness. No, not that. 

And so when he says something to the effect of, it’s ok, I forgive you, I freeze. What? What does he mean he forgives me? How can he, when I haven’t even forgiven me? He’s the one that should hate me the most, so why..

You might notice that a lot of this has been taken down, dear reader. The truth is, I combined it with my memoir in progress so… sadly, you’ll have to stay tuned to see how this turned out.

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“Far From Home” by Five Finger Death Punch–

Magick. The transit of Venus. Storms in our fingertips. Tornadoes whirling in the sky. Portals of light. Rainbow clouds. Screaming the lyrics of any song that makes our throats and hearts raw. 

It’s hard to believe in magic, sometimes. This world is so full of pain and suffering, misery and false piousness. It’s hard to look for pixie dust and magic mirrors when the world tells you you’re insane for trying. 

Or it tells you you’re just insane, period. 

I know the person sitting next to me, my witch-twin, understands that. 

Laura has been there with me through the summer of the Newsies, first loves, cringey poetry, the winters of depression, my drunken rages, my newfound sobriety. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without my witch-twin beside me.

It’s the summer of 2012 and everything feels imminent. Like… like if we just try hard enough, if we just reach out our fingertips ever so slightly higher, that we will reach into the heart of the universe itself and step into something… else. Something more. Some place where we will feel the wings unfurl across our shoulders. 

Large and gauzy, iridescent and all shades of the rainbow, a slight hum of what might be magical spells whenever they flutter: mine. 

Layers on layers of feathers like an oil spill, a sound like knives sharpening whenever they’re drawn up, and in: Laura’s. 

The magic of mending hearts, or breaking them. Warm honey dripping in navels and between plump thighs. A light touch that brings madness, redemption, or both. Irrepressible longing. Battlefield cries that echo from mangled souls: the destruction and desecration of love itself. Mine. And Venus.

Nightmares like minions sent to haunt the unworthy. The cold light of steel against a crescent moon. The drip drip drip of blood from hands clasped in prayer. The gentle ballad of death. The roar of terror at the face of shadows and the underworld, of beauty like a night orchid in the graveyard. Laura’s. And the Morrigan.

It’s hard to stay here, in this world, in this place, when we feel that there must be something more. When we can feel the magic purring beneath our skin, waiting for the release, like a supernova.

I am waiting in my newly purchased red Colorado pickup, aptly named Bubba (a tribute to my Floridian past). My hands are drumming a rhythm on the steering wheel as I wait for the apartment door to open. The heat is already oppressive, and the sky seems to curl in on itself, clouds swirling around some kind of hand – like god, or destiny. I can almost feel the rumble of thunder in my bones, although it hasn’t come, not yet. The air is charged with foretelling. 

When the door opens, I can feel my whole face smile, my eyes lighting up with a recognition that shivers and shakes my entire body. 

Laura is grinning back at me. Cropped dark hair frames a pixie-like face, and eyes like emerald and old gold are dancing as they encounter mine. Is this world, together, not our oyster?

Can we not pry it open and find the pearl?

Laura has settled herself into the passenger seat beside me, and looks up towards the sky with an endearing smirk. “Did we do that?”

I laugh, knowingly. “Maybe.”

“Ice cream?”

Two words that always make my day. I look over and grin. “Absolutely.”

We make our way to Graeter’s ice cream, listening to whatever rock music is on the Blitz, because I’m sick of the mix CDs I’ve got (I know, who still uses mix CDs? Me, I guess). On commercial breaks we talk about our writing, begging each other to send whatever it is, laughing at our own eagerness. But it’s been this way since we were kids, since we first met. Writing and writing and writing, sharing and sharing and sharing, growing with each other as writers and as friends. 

“Far From Home” comes on, and… something about it makes me ache.

Unspoken words crowd my throat. 

I don’t want to talk about the way I wore my heart on my sleeve on his birthday. About how he opened his door and saw me blushing over the yellow daisies in the wicker basket I carried to him, about stuffing it with his favorite beer and tea and dark chocolate.

I don’t want to talk about a red chair in the woods, about slow kisses turned into passionate embraces, about discovering his every hidden freckle, about flushing as he kisses every one of mine. 

I don’t want to talk about the way he’s breaking my heart.

I don’t want to talk about how sometimes I want to break his, just to see if I can. 

I don’t want to talk about his blue green eyes and how, if I’m not careful, I’ll dive into them, into an unknown future with him. 

No.

I want to talk about pirates who call to their brethren with voices like sirens, urging them to the edge of a cliff.

I want to talk about panthers who lurk around the in-between places, crouched between violets and wormhole windows, watching from afar. 

I want to talk about the visions I’ve been having, of Venus herself, pink fireworks bursting like joy and wreaking havoc within this tattered and patched soul of mine.

I want to talk about those rainbow clouds in the distant skies, about how to us, they seem like a bridge, like a path, like the road from the dark night of the soul to the light of dawn in your heart. 

I want to talk about witchcraft, hexes and parallel worlds.

I want to talk about being in love with dreams, how they fade like gossamer webs whenever you blink open your eyes, and the way you pull the covers over your head, silently begging them to return.

And I know my witch-twin wants to talk about that, too. 

We park and proceed to get our ice cream (so much peanut butter and chocolate sauce for Laura, so many cheesecake pieces for myself) and walk to our usual spot at the small college nearby, under the welcoming trees. There are, as usual, a bunch of boys around our age playing soccer. We admit to each other that the view ain’t half bad, and giggle into our ice cream galaxies. 

I watch as Laura’s head tilts back, soaking up the dappled light, and I can almost see their freckles multiplying. “What would you do, if we lived in a world where magic was more like the movies and TV shows?”

I contemplate this. “I think I’d be a love goddess. And fly. I’d love to fly. But also fix some shit, like poverty and global warming. This world is kind of a mess…” 

Laura chuckles, one green eye cracking open to look over at me, sprawled all over the grass as if it’s my own bed. “Understatement.” 

“What about you? What would you do?” 

A kind of quiet hush descends, as if the world must also know this answer. Even the chirping birds have gone silent: waiting. “I’d like to be a shape shifter, I think. And yea, fix some shit. Like these huge vacant buildings and warehouses. Why not make them into homeless shelters, or some kind of center for underprivileged artists? Stuff like that.”

“You’re amazing,” I sigh. 

Laura sticks their tongue out and I laugh. We aren’t great at accepting compliments, and that hasn’t changed in over a decade. It’s kind of comforting, actually. “Anyway, that’s just the half of it. I’m also thinking of like, eye for an eye, etc. – I’m no saint.”

“No, definitely wouldn’t have accused you of that.”

We lock eyes and belly laugh so loud and long that the boys playing soccer look over, obvious interest in their lazy perusal of us. We barely notice, caught up in our own world, like we always have been. 

“Here’s to finding magic and changing the world!” I lift my cone high and Laura does the same with her cup. We “toast” and smirk.

The world isn’t ready for us.

And neither are the dreams.

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“Big Girls Don’t Cry”  Fergie – I’ve been staring at the ceiling for god knows how long, and my whole body feels heavy, like I’m weighed down with sand bags. Everything here feels wrong. This isn’t my room. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my house. 

My heart is, indeed an ocean; crashing into itself again and again, breaking and remaking itself. 

If I crack the window and strain my ears, I can almost hear the waves, beckoning me to walk the few blocks to the beach, and become one with all of that – at last. But I won’t open them, because the Florida air is so thick and sticky I can already feel it like condensation on my skin. And even with the windows closed I can hear the comforting chirp of cicadas and smell the salt. My parents are murmuring in the other room, probably wondering if I’m ok.

I’m not ok. I’m 27 and I just flipped my entire life around, and I’m not even sure why. I’m not even sure I did the right thing.

I don’t know what to do.

What the hell is the right thing to do?

I turn onto my side and reach towards the other side of the bed, but there’s no familiar body beside me, warming the sheets. There’s no boyish grin that makes my own lips curve. There’s no one to grip onto in the middle of the night, when the nightmares take over once more. 

And I chose that. 

I chose this. 

I taste the tears in my mouth before I even feel the sting in my eyes.

Before I can break down – yet again – there is a soft knock at the door. “Come in,” I croak, hastily wiping the tears away. 

My mom walks through the door, her blue eyes light and sympathetic. I try to smile, but I know she sees right through me. She sees the way my mouth wobbles uncertainly, the light catching the wet sheen in my river green irises. “Hey baby girl. You wanna go get a rootbeer float?” 

A broken laugh emerges from me. The rootbeer float thing is kind of a joke between us. In 2004 mom and I were alone in our Florida house when 4 hurricanes hit the East coast. Daddy and Lexy were still in Ohio, so it was just us. The house was boarded up, the streets were flooded, we had no electricity; we even read books by using flashlights. And the only thing that could soothe us (plus one of the only places that stayed open throughout) was a Dairy Queen rootbeer float. We used to navigate through water-logged driveways, trees crumpled as if in a swoon, and the frightened people we passed who, like us, needed a respite from their dark homes. And maybe it was because of the epic journey we had to undertake, but nothing had ever tasted so good as that vanilla ice cream and fizzing, dark soda. Since then, it became a tradition of ours: road trips and hard times always called for rootbeer floats. I stagger upright and say, “Yes. I’d really like that.”

Mom nods, her blonde hair swaying around her cheeks. “Ok, well, get dressed and I’ll get the car ready.” She’s gone before I can say, I am dressed? But I guess a bralette and pajama shorts aren’t the best outfit if I’m seen out and about, so I sigh, relenting. I dig out a maxi skirt and drag it over my hips, because that’s the maximum amount of effort I’m going to put into my outfit. My dad is snoring on the couch when I emerge, some car auction show on the tv apparently not enough to have kept his attention. I feel a rush of tenderness for him. He’s been through so much. He deserves all the naps and all the gin and tonics he could ever want. Mom was hoping that moving back here would help his health.

I really hope she’s right. 

I tug a blanket around him and watch him for a moment. His eyes look a little more sunken, but he’s got color in his face, and I have to admit he’s much happier here than he was in Ohio. I pause, once, and then turn and run towards the car. Because, after all, treats and sweets await.

As soon as I’m in the car I roll down the window and stick my hand out, wondering if I might catch some stardust in my palms if I make just the right wish, if perhaps some kind pixie will take pity on me and grant me just enough that I could shake it over myself and fly away from my problems, just one more time. My newly purple hair matches the lilac twilight bleeding into the eggplant hues of night, and I enjoy watching the strands whip in the wind and seem to disappear in that light, or lack thereof. We pass familiar landmarks that make my nostalgia rise, a pleasant bittersweet burn that I can taste on my tongue. The lighthouse, my elementary school, Nalu’s food truck, the alligator farm. I remember climbing all those steps to the lighthouse and then, perched at the edge, realizing I was terrified of heights. I remember going to Nalu’s with Alex, Nicole and Lexy, stuffing our faces with fresh fish tacos, laughing at how messy we were and how little we cared. I remember trying so hard to fit in as a little girl, drawing pictures and making bracelets and telling stories to anyone that wanted one, to anyone my age that gave me a scrap of attention or affection. 

I wonder how many times you can lose yourself before you can never find her?

I lost her at 15, when I started my devastating and toxic relationship with alcohol. 

I lost her at 16, when people wanted to stroke my blonde waves and catch my frothy skirts in their fingers, when I shoved anything unattractive or different out of the way, to keep their admiration. 

I lost her at 19, when my father had cancer and I picked up the bottle again.

I lost her at 21, when I flirted with death, when I danced on his threshold and teased him with my charming smiles, when I hitched up my skirt, winked and stuck my toe into his realm. 

And somehow, between the ages of 22 and 27, I lost her again. I don’t even know how, or when, or why. I loved Thomas so much… I loved him so much that I kept trying to make myself smaller, to fit into the home we’d made together. I felt like a giant, stuffed into a too-small house, feeling the cracks in the walls, the shattered chandeliers holding on for dear life, the splintered crown moulding. Every time I moved something else would shift, and my lungs would breathe in all that dust. My old wounds reopened every time the house protested my size, my tears, my anger. And the whole time I looked into his eyes and said, “I’m fine! It’s not so bad!”

I wanted so badly to be loved, to belong, that somewhere along the way I left who I was behind. I wondered if she was on some abandoned highway, trying to hitchhike her way back to me, waiting for a car that was never going to come. 

It wasn’t his fault. I’m the one who should have taken the car to meet her, my true self, but every single time I turned away – and tossed myself into his arms instead. I’d relish the feel of his fingers on me, his arms around me, his lips on my cheek. Couldn’t love, alone, be enough?

No.

When I drove away from him, to find her on that old tumbleweed road, I wept so hard that I couldn’t breathe. Who was I to pack up the car and leave what we’d built? Couldn’t I keep trying to shrink myself, couldn’t I eventually learn to fit? After all, he brought me sunflowers and took me to see my favorite band. After all, he’d pledged himself to me. After all, he was the first man I’d loved since sobriety, since cancer, since my first love. After all, he’d traced my tattoos with the kind of reverence that made my soul shake. After all, in the wee hours of the morning, he was the one I rolled into, crying, my lips seeking his; my flower forever seeking his sun. 

I knew when I pulled from my Tarot deck: Lovers reversed, The Tower, and Death. It couldn’t be more clear. And still… and still.

My mom is quiet until we have our rootbeer floats. I’m digging into mine happily, humming along to the CD she put on (oh, wonder if that’s who I get it from?), making plans to walk down to the beach once we get home and dig my toes into the sand, grounding myself to the more wild and unpredictable moods of the ocean and her shores. It’s a reckless energy, more frenetic than the slow and quiet in the Midwest. The places I’ve seemingly left behind, chasing phantoms in the whirlwinds of foam and sand, or listening for half-remembered poetry in the voices of dolphins and pelicans. 

“You did the right thing.” She sounds so sure when she tells me that. More sure than I am, was, or maybe ever have been. 

I twist my body away from the window to look into her quiet, wise eyes. “How do you know?”

“Because I saw you breaking apart. I saw how lost you were. How small and sad. I don’t know what your path is, but you needed to get out and find yourself again. It was killing you.” I open my mouth to deny it but she shakes her head and flips through a few songs until we hear the first few lines of Fergie’s song ‘Big Girls Don’t Cry’ and…

And I’m just a teenager again, driving with my mom before my driver’s test, wailing this song with her and laughing, frozen in that one golden moment. The lyrics mean more to me now than they did then. Leaving someone you adore, even though you love them, because you have to grow up, you have to become. 

The armies within me lay down their weapons. The barricades are broken. The world is flooded with music and regret. And I’m just a little girl, sobbing in my mother’s arms. “But I love him.”

“I know, Bits. I know you do.”

“We have a home together. A whole life.”

“I know it.”

“I love his family. I love his mom, and his stepdad, and his brothers and… and all of them!” 

“I know, baby. We loved them, too.” 

“What am I doing?” I wept. “I love him. I should go back.” 

“Baby, I’m gonna tell you something that every person should know. Love isn’t enough. I know you know that. You saw that with Elijah. Love wasn’t enough to save you from your alcoholism. It wasn’t enough to save you from everything that happened. And it’s not enough now. You think your dad and I got by on just love?” She runs her fingers through my hair, and I cry harder. “No way. We had to have trust. Communication. Honor. Laughter. Friendship. And more than that, we had to keep coming back to who we were, apart from each other. Honestly, Bits, I’ve never seen you do that. You got sober and immediately got into a relationship with Thomas. And I don’t know if you ever found out who you were again. And that’s what’s breaking you. That’s what’s killing you, baby.” 

But, I want to say, but what about the way I would ride with him on the back of his motorcycle, how we’d create a wormhole with our laughter and our dissonance, how I collected petals in my hair like trophies?

But, I want to say, but what about the times my chemical engineer lover and I argued about what was science and what was magic, and what was both?

But, I want to say, but what about the quarry that still murmurs of our secret trysts when the moon is only a sliver in the sky and the stars are asking for stories?

But, I want to say, but what about the fights we had, how I’d throw old love letters into his face and run away and slam the door until the house shook? And what about every time I came back in, shame-faced and tear-streaked, he opened that front door and stepped aside to let me in?

But, I want to say, but what about the way he gripped me like a trophy, how his hands sought me under tables and in gardens, how my laughter made his cheeks go pink?

But, I want to say, but how am I supposed to go on with another broken heart? I don’t think I can. I don’t think I’m strong enough. 

“You are strong enough,” my mother says, and I realize I said the last one out loud. “You can do this. And then, whatever is meant to be, will be.”

I grab her hand. “I’m terrified.”

She nods. “I know. You need to be, to find your way back to yourself. But I’ll be here. And so will rootbeer floats.”

I laugh. And then I cry. 

Later, in the bed that isn’t mine, isn’t ours, I dream. I don’t dream about blue green eyes and hungry kisses. I don’t dream about hibiscus flowers and teeth. I don’t even dream about faceless shadows in the dark and endless screams.

I dream that I am flying above the world, a magic wand in my hand and delight in my heart, as I cast spells and dreams unto the peaceful, angry, hurtful, hating, wonderstruck, bitter, human people below me.

And I am whole.