I am made of rivers and moss, of the sharp rocks that remind you of your mortality, of lost hag stones, charms and dirt. I am made of the mud of your poor intentions.
Forgotten dregs of coffee sliding between your teeth like the bitter aftertaste of a bad one night stand.
How could you forget me?
As if I am not the darkness between stars and the sharp burn of blood clinging to the inside of your mouth. You can’t forget the dark satin and chocolate of late nights and later thoughts.
Disregard me and I will not blot you out from every story; I will unwrite you from the world. Forget the pain you have caused me and I will fill your lungs with the rivers.
Lost time the last time, loud trucks and flys unwanted like me, untamed like her, unnoticed like I will never be.
Sunsets like blood wine, like mulled wine, like spiced warm winter wine, slowly setting at the back of your throat as you lose your way again as you forget the taste of my skin.
Choke on my revenge.
Some stories have no happy ending. Some stories end in drownings and poison and grieving mothers.
Smoke is settling like a fur coat across the shoulders of some famous so-and-so.
Dearly beloved, I bequeath my fox fur coat of wildfire to the most devious of my daughters.
For only she will know the ways of smoldering eyes and sharpened tongues of running water and running thoughts, for only she who can lay with kings and clean the shit from the cows, for my most devious daughter, she may have it all.
To you, child--
I leave my commemorative spoon from my trip to Wherever.
Dearly beloved, we are no longer gathered. We no longer pretend that we fit together like actors on that old show.
We don’t. She’s broken, I’m broke. We have lost our way again.
How did I give you all that I am?
You did not want me for my setting sun skin and my anger like the hide of an animal, bristled and lathered and worn like the leather of a favorite saddle.
Dear savage river, you have bred flies. They settle on the cream of your skin like glittering black jewels as a reminder that we all decay in the end; that what is left of us will stain the waters.
I know your angry Ophelia.
I know you wanted something more dignified. But all we have is the flies.
All we have is the old dregs of coffee.
Summer child who plays in the golden streams of light dancing down. Who drowns in moonlight and darkened halls where the shadow of smoke resides.
Do I unsettle you with my abrupt?
With my sudden?
With my dregs?
Who wants to be the summer child anyway? I am the winter queen, autumn dancer scattering beatles and pomegranate seeds in my wake. Wake to see my eyes, darlin’. Wake to feel my lips, love.
I won’t stay. I won’t say it again. The sky is burning and I leave in the morning.
Bring the heat of the summer grapes, bring the swirl of bright blue eyes that sparkle like sun on water.
God, you are such a cliché. You are such a mess, such a gentle, such a mistake.
Bring all that you are, don't leave a single part behind.
Bury your toes in the dirt and plant your roots like autumn's last crops, dig deep into my hair, wrap yourself around my setting sun skin.
We may drown in the river, or be poisoned by those who are jealous of our stories. There is nothing to be done now. Let the sun set on the drowning river.
Let the crescent rise and star eyes.
Once in a blue moon,
once on a shooting star,
once upon a time.