Elisabeth Writing

I can feel the steam rising off of the cobbled streets, and I find myself dodging puddles of who knows what. The pastel buildings with their iron galleries and dripping tropical flowers seem to shiver as I run my fingers across their bousillage and stucco exteriors. And the air is heavy, almost alive: thick with perfume and ghosts. There’s a singer dancing in the square, and her voice is making my skin tingle. I want to raise my arms and dance, free, in a way that I haven’t been in… ages.

And… there’s something about being here, in this place, that awakens something in me. It has cracked open my chest cavity and filled it with ore, jazz, vampiric lore, and sensuous beauty. It’s the kind of soulmate sensation that I feel I’ve been looking for my entire life, as if my soul is saying; here, here, here. I’ve found it. Where have you been? Ah, beloved, just come here: come to me.

When two men see me lounging outside, between the antique store and the magic shop, they stop to tell me I’m “a tall, gorgeous drink of water.” I notice the way their gaze runs over my thighs, my tattoos, the amulet that now lays, warm, against my breast. It doesn’t make me cringe away, or duck my head self-consciously; it just makes me grin, because they’re part of the soul of this place, and they recognize me for what I am: a sensual love-witch in her element.

Here, my spine is straight; my smile is more of a smirk; my eyes sparkle with spells and secrets. Here I release the fawning girl that I’ve held onto, in fear; the trembling voice, the hunched over shoulders, the endless apologies. Here, those nightmares of what people once did to me seem to fade, and I can breathe. Here, I can take my husband’s hand in mine and sway to the saxophone that keeps haunting my dreams. Here, I can run my hands over my body, tilt my head back, and let my laugh come, a throaty bell in my throat. I have become one with the night and the city itself.

I can’t imagine leaving here.

I can’t imagine grey skies, covering the flowers on my skin, and being afraid to meet anyone’s eyes.

I can’t imagine going back to that girl I was.

And so… I won’t. I’ll take this city with me. Crescent-City wonders like freckles on my clavicle; the lascivious desires of the shadowed alleyways and Bourbon street like oil dabbed in the hollow of my throat; magic like jewels on my fingers and hovering in my cleavage; jazz music and soul in the hum of my low voice; and magic (ah the magic!) fizzing in my blue veins.