That’s what I thought.
I keep cutting off my hair and picking at my skin and pulling at my eyebrows and it’s not because I’m mourning because I’m not and it’s not because you’re gone because you’re not so it must just be that sometimes you have to rend your clothes and smear your face with ashes you just have to wail and beat your breast you know?
There are no books in which I could find answers for this, no key to be found in church or mosque or synagogue, no past pilgrims or prophets whose footsteps I might follow. Should I walk until my feet are bruised and bled? Should I withhold food and water? Should I cast stones or light candles or burn offerings? I do not know. I would cleanse myself in holy water, if you cared for purity. I would confess my sins, if you cared for goodness. But you are fickle, cruel gods and I do not know to what state of grace or disgrace I should strive to earn your love anew. There have never been ones like you in all the pantheons of history, and thus I am alone in worship and ministry both.
it is a loss like religion and nowhere to go on Sunday mornings, a book gathering dust on the bedside table, all meaning wrung out of the old songs until the chords are dry and wrinkled but I’m still so thirsty, a vessel waiting to be filled, and the voice that was once clear as a bell has fallen so silent I can hear the seconds ticking by which I shall never regain, the heartbeats I can’t spare, and nothing feels immortal now, not even gods
It’s ironic, now that I think about it; in a way, you are my fairy godmother.You revealed yourself to me when I was young and awkward and in need of a guiding hand. You gave me a cloak with which I transformed into the better version of myself: confident, brave, powerful. A little mysterious, too; the character in the shadows whose alliances are suspect, whose past is as unreadable as their gaze. I needed that. I needed to become strong by feigning strength, even if my bravery turned back to rags at midnight. I still do sometimes, actually. I still settle your cloak over my shoulders when the world is too harsh, too bleak, too much to face as myself. I wear your electricity and fearless madness like armor, your confidence my shield and your unrelenting ego my sword. You’re a nontraditional fairy godmother, but then again, I’m a nontraditional heroine.
they don’t know that I carry you everywhere, always, but I want them to, I want them to see you flashing behind my eyes, an anger that isn’t mine, a danger I don’t pose, they should see you somehow, I should cover myself in black ink, the stuff of your lifeblood, I should tattoo your words of bitterness and illfate on every inch of my flesh until I’m covered, overlapped, a Rosetta Stone to decrypt the ages you have lived and died a thousand terrible existences, if I carry your weight on my shoulders and your sorrow in my heart and your rage like a firestorm in my blood then why not my skin, why not your thoughts and threats like graffiti on this vessel to show them I am the scribe, the keeper, the conduit for something so much darker and more terrible and beautiful than myself