“Put it in a jar and it’s a spell,” the saying goes.
Withered flowers for resurrecting memories that outlive the bouquet. Pebbles for conjuring a granola sunburn on rainy days in the city. I put everything in jars. This room that holds all my joy, all my fury, all my little trinkets that keep the light on in my body. I put everything in jars, and every body in this household overflows with magic. They take my father apart and sew him back together, and leave inside him scars and prayers and anger and apologies and stories that will come out when he is ready.
I have never been a light packer. I am a voyager making my way through the world with a thousand spell jars in my pocket. I keep a copy of every joke told by every person who’s ever won my heart and broke it. Hold on to every hug because you don’t know when you’re getting the next one. And I love radically, ferociously, crashing into everything with fists full of broken glass—
The truth is I’m writing this on a whim, digging through the drafts for a little dark magic, at a frosh dance I can’t get out of, so here’s what I’ve got—
I don’t want a room full of people.
I need one.
Run away from the party with me as far as possible,
and the losers are always winning.
Cut the music.
Catch you outside.
The sunset is the prettiest before we lose it all forever.
What an honour to lose my all to forever.
Give me less.
I can love harder than that.
And oh god they’re bringing out the little cakes and all the girls keep carrying out more chairs and somewhere there’s a conga line but I’ve got my hands full with theories about sunsets and shit so that’s why I have nothing to say. Uh, can I interest you in getting out of here on the boat? They can keep the beat and the mocktail bar and the fairy lights. I want the moon.
You in?
I’ll work my spells and I’ll tell you about the trees of my past, future, and present
(floorboards flooded with moonlight).
Then, you tell me if that’s too much or not enough.
