shrouded-tears

There is witchcraft in our blood, in our bones we carry the magic that you could not burn away. You see, fire does not eat fire. Your mother would have taught you that if the world hadn’t convinced her that despite her body being able to bring life into this world, she is not a magical thing. Maybe the witches you burned were the daughters of something more holy than you could ever handle. So you set them alight for being different, forgetting that even the son of your God was once condemned for being too pure, too beautiful, too different for this world. History devoured your name, but we have never forgotten what you di

Folded along the crevices where the river meets sand lies the body of our love, now it’s edges covered in moss. It stays there, where the water still sings hymns to the land, little realizing that you cannot turn holy a decaying corpse. And I still visit and fold my hands in prayer, even though seeing what is left of our love leaves me feeling so alone and scared undone at the watery seams, cursing every star above. Some days I return with eyes so red my mother worries she warns me that the river can never heal what fell apart but I always return to the alcove of where we are buried. I am still offering the water my swollen, moon soak