they whisper stories about the woman of the wood and all she has done to terrorize and kidnap our loved ones, all she has done to earn that title of monster.
and so it begins like this:
her skin is of the earth. her eyes resemble roasted almonds swimming in cinnamon butter. dark, thick hair twists and curls in on itself. reedy laughter curls around you.
she's a beauty of beasts
shredding the smooth plasticity of a few simple hallelujahs.
her rigid edges cut deeper than thorns
budding from the ironwood branches they abandoned her under.
her arms hold scars, wishes, threats
those arms have pillaged and torn apart cities built from the bodies of young girls.
she's used to snapping oppressors bathing in sugar-water, but this is ridiculous.
a woman-
a woman like her-
needs no introduction.
mothers hide away their boys, hoping to stifle the challenge brimming in their eyes.
the daughters are left to the woods to starve and weep for their lost dolls and families until she approaches, the woman of the earth.
the girls don't cry when she offers her hand in welcome, eyes knowing and downcast as she sees herself in their sweet faces and outgrown gingham dresses.
she takes them in, offers them a home among the sweet lilies and ironwood trees, offering stories and strength to each.
and eventually once the girls grow into their own persons, she lets them choose what home will mean. whether it's back into the arms of those who left helpless children to fend for themselves, or to nurture the new doe-eyed girls taking their place.
daughter, she's no monster.
the monsters live in castles behind moats and high walls, swords drawn against the glare of daylight and woman.
monsters are made of
pouty heroism
the black and white
a father's hand beating the opinionated
a mother's scolding
a kingdom's failure to see
a woman for who she is.
the woman of the wood
has gifted us our place among the walls
so that we may crumble them to dust.
blink lazily into the moon's light
and tell me what it means
to see the above and never be able to
taste it.
we will taste moonlight before we are through, daughter.
YOU ARE READING
little blue flowers
PoetryA collection of original poetry by Ella Petrichor. Highest Rank: #152 in Poetry (6/14/18) **COMPLETED** ::Excerpt:: "betrayal along the seams" A melancholic pallor lining her face She stood in the doorway Beating the shit out of that old rug As thou...
