What do I suffer over now that the curse has lifted? Who do I call when I’m no longer broken and bitter? I walked two years with my eyes down, barely open, Waiting to break a leg, begging to waste a moment.
My pleas did not make it to heaven, but neither did my gods, And I erased myself from every good battle I fought. The times have shifted into moments I hold so close. I can barely unclench my fist from the stem of the rose.
And to you, staring my black rags up and down, Just know that I broke the curse when my spark drowned, And I built a new one from charcoal and sandpaper, While Time prayed for me, hoping I would meet my maker.
With no one to call and no soul left to regret, I am blurring the face of everyone I have met. Yet the colors slide back into place, the sharpness persists; The birds chirp, the sun rises, the mist lifts.
Is this only for a day, or can I trust the green light? If Warmth starves me again, I will not pick a new fight. The curse will find me again, but so will the cure. There is no pleasure in keeping your worst intentions pure.
He who cursed me does not get a seat at the dinner table, As I emerge from the hearse, twelve gravely months later. Pain feels different, more like a memory than my fate, And the smiling faces on my wall tell me I didn’t need to drown to get saved.
Remain quiet behind the old graveyard gate. The handles and locks make you think that you’re late, Yet you’re just in time for the freshest slate— Resurrection of a girl in the gilded crate.
Approach with caution, beware the emerald flame. Don’t stare at the cryptids, the beast, the dame. When the clock strikes midnight, shout out your name. Watch the shallow grave shake from ancestral shame.
Watch it deepen and widen in quiet rage. The priests will get butchered with a single page, But don’t you run—wait for the gilded cage. Observe her blood-red hair, observe that stunning mage.
A man will ask who put her to early death. She’ll raise a single brow like it’s a cunning threat, Then say, “Every captain I’ve ever met,” Leaving you high and dry, stealing your mind and breath.
The mage will stand up only to fall on her knees. Never trust your instinct to help the weak. She’s a traitor tailored for devils and greed. Someone who knew her said she was the Queen of Peace,
But rising tides filled her lungs with salt water, Drowned her homes and hopes along with her own father. As you watch her limbs stiffen up, growing harder, You’ll question whether she’s a lion or a martyr.
The candles spin in thin air as chants come to be hectic. Were her eyes made by gods to birth heretics? Her frame levitates, killing your inner skeptic, And curses bleach your soul like an antiseptic.
The first rays of sun peek through sacred trees. Wet ground starts swallowing her bones and dreams, Until her skin turns to dust, until the fingers freeze. Some spit on her grave, some tremble like leaves.
The crowds disappear until only two souls remain— A woman in green, a creature with your own name. The lines on her face are carved from sheer pain. Your eyes meet, and her voice spills out like champagne:
“She was forged from stone, rubies, silver, and heat. Resurrections only haunt those who refuse to leave. I’m yet to learn that lesson—should’ve let her become me, Should’ve let her slash throats that claimed to be holy.
I tortured her to entertain the cruel and divine, Until her name became the butt of a victor’s rhyme. Here she lies, drowned in words that were never mine. Here she dies, knowing she was buried alive.”
A great worm twists within me, trying to push forward. If he wasn’t this ugly, I would’ve given him the foreword. Bites cover my sleeves like participation trophies, And I want to chew his head off for never saying sorry.
My guts are a dessert wicked men serve for dinner. I’ve lost my self-esteem, but I don’t think I’m the sinner. He consumed me like a meal, yet it made him sick. The soft spot in my heart turned to cold, red brick.
When his teeth clenched my spine in a vanishing glory, The calmness in my breaths made him feel slightly worried. A door opened; I ran. He couldn’t even follow. What he thought was my life was just a tiny hollow.
The great worm rots within me, screaming for air. If he wasn’t this cruel, I would’ve given him care. Scars paint my skin with blood of angry spirits. Your reputation has only eleven minutes left,
Before I break it apart, Play your favorite parts, Kill the worm, Make you squirm. You gave me your word.
I hate hoarding useless junk. You’re a rotten beast dressed as an accused monk. Yet, a mercy killing isn’t a murder after all. Please rest assured, no one will answer your call. A great worm twists within me, lonely and broke. If he wasn’t this mean, I’d have made him a joke.
The Daily Writing of Jackie Wright 