first, introductions

prologue.
first we start with Self: with Girl and Persephone and Fae and Water;
we start at the beginning.
(and we shall decide where this hallowed place supposedly is
  by the placement of the worst cracks
  in the heart of the shrine maiden of this stardust reliquary
            -- re linquo -- "again, I vanish"
            surely, somewhere,
                        someone must catch her
                                                & keep her?)

Girl.
gravity, gravitas. a grave situation.
there was a point, I suppose,
where I started. there was a point
-- I think --
when I was not such, but now, it feels
      (always about feelings)
I have always been,
gravely so, the gravitation of a Girl.
I have been many things otherwise --
      sister, lover, seer, mother, doll, monster, witch, bitch, healer
  -- but it started with Girl.
what it will end with, I know not
and I do not ask
 half the joy in life's horror
  is that little bit of mystery.


Persephone.
perhaps, perhaps, it is all merely
how one views the past
through a tinted glass,
through a stain of blood,
through the death&rebirth of a Girl.
I became the Mistress of Spring one winter.
I descended into hell on bleeding feet
dragged by my hair by Hades
      (and oh I remember his crowing laugh
       the thickened scent of blood and fat
       and the chill of the dirk I always had strapped to my thigh.
         he didn't know about that.)
yes, I became Primavera Incarnate, but
also, also -- I rose
   like a flower, like a bruise
and I became Queen of Hell.
I learned, first,
   how to thrust the ornamental knife and twist it in my captor's heart
     (and oh, I loved it,
      even though it never took away the rage&pain)
I took the crown by force, all ice and thorn and steel
  and it sits upon my brow
   as easily as the flowers of my season I twine in days of sunshine
     beneath trees coloured like a sighing thistlemallow dream.
One became Two; Spring and Hell
      both at once.
(And damn, do I look good in that crown.)

Fae.
there was me -- Two-souled, both secrets and despair --
  before her.
   at least,
      I think there was.
I was formed of gossamer shortcake, shadowshimmer on midnight water, and impossible wishes --
      too fragile a tangled web to carry so much regret.
      (and oh, how heavy is love turned to regret?)
when the wings began to show,
      I tore them off for her.
when the faerie babble escaped my lips,
      I forced my tongue to speak only the obvious.
and on the day the earth shuddered, agonised --
I knew:
she stopped loving me.
      or she never started.
            (I also knew: the woman I loved was dead.
                          the woman I loved never existed.
                          I would still mourn her.)
I sat in a haze of feral glamour, anxious heartbeats, saltwater,
      pixilated and humiliated,
  and I swore, then,
      no one would ever tear off my wings again,
      diaphanous frail dragonfly things they might be.
Two became Three. sorrow had a face,
      bitten raw lips, bleeding chewed fingertips; the taste of iron.
the scars have been carved with icicle blades;
 in winter, I hide them beneath a fall of snow
 in spring, I watch it melt, and pray they have grown fainter
            and my wings have grown stronger.


Water.
then there was the Sea.
      but there was always the Sea.
the one constant in a life of liminality and forever changes;
  I would run to the cathartic saline arms of the Ocean,
   and I would belong.
I always have, eternally a virason-seeking creature,
  a seal woman utterly untamed.
I walk upon the shore, tiptoe upon the very edge of the great Pacific,
      and I am home.
I run to Them. I whisper Them my secrets. I let Them take my tears,
      salt-strangled sorrow, and make them nothing but drops, one of many.
            Their father-protection, Their mother-heart.
            They are all things to me, after horror & heartbreak & lostness
                  They remain, perilous and faithful.
every breath aequoreal.
here am I,
      selkie, wave-borne,
            ever reborn.

post-script.
there is more, of course
 there are worlds more
stories; savagery. beauty.
nonsensical threads from a mad girl's tapestry
 fallen petals from Ophelia's fatalistic bouquet
  vague flutterflickers of butterfly scales and cosmic dust.
where next?
      I wonder,
            where next?

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