Made of Magic

Frida Kahlo said “take a lover who looks at you like you are magic.”

I do that.

They do that.

Right before they run.

I’m over asking what I’ve done.

I had one boy once look at me and say “You’re way too good for me and I don’t want to be there the morning you wake up, look at me and realize that, it might kill me.”

We hadn’t had a date yet.

That one came off like a band-aid, nice and quick. No stickiness or tearing. Amazing how palpable the worst things said can be when coated in kindness and self-preservation. His, not mine.

“It’s having a thing and losing it that’ll kill ya”. Cold Mountain.

I get no choice in the matter. Part of me dies every fucking time. I bleed too.

Hardly seems fair.

Life isn’t overly fair. It is beautiful and wonderful, exactly like these boys I meet. But fair? Rarely.

Frida also had instructions for what to do when they are gone.

Frida…I am sorry my love.

My lovers and my heart are wolves, can’t be trained/tamed.

My bathtub is full of saltwater, and sometimes blood or tears or cum.

I have whiskey in my teacup.

My doors do not lock.

Maybe I should marry a locksmith.

Unless something happens and the lines on my palms change, there is no marriage for me. I know this and accept it.
They call nuns the brides of Christ and witches the wives of Satan. It’s alright.

I check heartlines. If I see an M, I know. Not Mine.

Still cuts when they leave.

My friends rally when I bleed, “he isn’t good enough for you.”

They don’t see what I see. I see souls. When I see one that is beautiful I cannot help but gravitate to it. Drop a note on a napkin into his hand and hope.

Hope is a beggar (JC). I must remember this.

I do not beg, chase or hope.

“Here is yes”. (SK)

I let them talk.
They shock themselves with the truth that comes flying out.

They say “I have never told anyone that before”, or “I can’t believe I said that.”

Then they pull their own bridges down.

It’s exponentially easier when the last things said are ‘we should go for sushi one night’ as opposed to ‘I want to jump in your trailer, drive until we hit the ocean and spend the rest of my life tasting you, swimming and making art’. (Gelfling)

Like healing a papercut versus a bullet wound.

I’m still running out of bandages.

The one who said ‘sushi’, I saw his future. I know I am not in it.
I have my apartment just my size, and he finds his home elsewhere, with her.

These two share a timeline. 1260.9688 days before the things I’ve prophetized become truth.

I just went through 100 days thinking I wanted to belong to someone.
I am out now.
It was dark there, it had to be so I could see light.
I was subjected to illuminated views of what my girls endure for their relationships. Shown giant neon déjà vu reminders of my own past when I was on lockdown in low men’s beds like prisons, deserts, arid. 10 000 days without magic. Never again.

I once was a papier-mâché puppet.

No more. I’m flesh and blood and bone and longing. No longer tormented and tied by strings.

Heart the size of Arizona if Arizona was the name of a star so big they haven’t made a category for it yet.

My lovers look at me like I am magic because I am.

I call myself a witch because it’s easier. I heal everyone but me.
I see things and they come running out of my mouth like a river. Sometimes it’s too much, like a spring flood and no one is safe near the water.

Our Sara of Lords was consoling me last night. My women never leave me.

She said:

“…And Sarah?  We’re not witches love.  We’re The Fallen.

The Fallen attract the witches and blend in with them but we’re different.  And our wings don’t work here.  And it hurts.  It burns.  And all we can do is love the shit out of each other until we get to go home.”

This tastes like truth in my mouth.

Mind you, so did he. And him, and the others.

I’ll see her and him soon. Going home for a spell.

Pilgrimage to the ocean. I need it. I’ve been bleeding out as of late without transfusions.

When I get back there will be sushi.

And it will be good, for now, not forever amen.