A true story...

There once was this girl with the heart of a star. And she loved this girl who had wings like a bird. The winged girl was the most beautiful creature Starchild had ever seen. They became friends and Stargirl fell in love. They had two years together, filled with talks that would last all night long, staying up under the stars and weaving their fingers together and cuddling and kissing. Even when they found boylovers, they vowed to stay true to each other, vowed to raise a family together of the most beautiful wildtribal things, have a house with giant trees and gardens and rainbow colored walls, where everyone dressed in beads and feathers depending on their mood: one could be a faerie, a pirate, a dryad, a warrior, an Indian, a priestess. Anything their hearts desired, they would become.

For two years, they watched boylovers come and go. And they were happy. Beyond happy. Stargirl had never been able to open up before. She had spent years in sorrow and isolation, unable to connect with anyone. They saw her starshine and they pushed her away. And then she met the Winged One, who understood the beauty of the sky, the moonlight keeping you aloft, finding dreams amongst the stars. She wanted to be with the Winged Girl always, and although they pledged their love, although they planned on staying together always, Stargirl knew in her heart that she would never been enough for the Winged Girl, knew that her love would always yearn for boylovers who could complete her much more than the silly child like body that Stargirl had.

Starchild knew that the Winged Girl wasn’t perfect. She would tell falsehoods to the people who were close to her, would fall into the beds of random boys who would never see her beauty. Stargirl watched as the Winged Girl dabbled in powders that brought her some peace, lost herself in greensmoke to get her out of her body, watched as she tore apart friendships by sleeping with best friends and getting what she wanted. Starchild wanted to make the Winged Girl happy – she knew that her girllove only did these things because she felt lost, because she didn’t know herself, because she was trying to find happiness where it couldn’t be found. Starchild held on, even when the Winged Girl moved far away in the attempt to find herself, even when all of the lies began to unravel in her wake. Stargirl still loved her, knew that no matter how many foolish decisions Winged Girl might make, her angelgirl would always be true to her, would always be honest, would always be there.

One night, Stargirl sat in the forest, looking up at her brethren sparkling in the skies above her, yearning for her winged love. There was a rustle in the bushes and a skunk emerged, cloaked in his black and white fur and his sadsad eyes. The skunk wiggled his little nose into Stargirl’s ear, knowing that he was about to break her heart, but knowing that the truth had to emerge.

And that was when the Starchild learned of her Winged Girl’s betrayals. How she had gone after Starchild’s boylovers, taken them into her bed in an attempt of conquest. Not just one, for Starchild thought she might have been able to forgive that. But she could not forgive four. She remembered the way the Winged Girl had told her to give up a lover that she had liked, telling her how terrible he was, a monsterman. She had listened to the love of her heart, not knowing that less than a week later, her Wingedlove and Monsterman had laid together in sheets soaked with their sweat and their moans.

Starchild discovered the betrayals, one after another. The lies unraveled, lies told to her by the one person she had always counted on for the truth. And then the Winged Girl changed in her eyes, became a stranger. And the Starchild thought she would die of the pain. She planned to die. Surely, anything had to be better than such emptiness. Winged Girl could not excuse her actions and with one swift motion, their lives were severed forever. The months passed and Starchild began to fade away, lose her shine. She felt bound to the earth, bound to the shadows. She had lost the taste of flight, the future she had dreamed of, her best friend, the mate of her heart. She cried every night. She thought of her winged girl every day.

Then the Starchild found an Angelboy, who kissed away her tears and had a generous heart. He did not judge her for not being able to open up, for always keeping a part of her hidden. He would see the pain in her eyes and hold her close, not asking for their cause, just offering his quiet support. His honesty helped her, the way his eyes never focused on other girls, and Starchild knew that she would always be enough for him, that he saw her sparkle and loved her for it. He was always there, even when Starchild’s belly began to swell with new life, even when the blood began and death entered her body. They healed together, they grew together. Starchild learned to grow hard, knew how to be strong for herself for the first time in her life, felt made of up knives and glass that only Angelkisses could soften. She stopped thinking of the Winged Girl every day, slowly grew into her own life, although she knew the emptiness never fully go away.

And then one day, a mysterious letter arrived. Unsigned and with no return address, it bore words of apologies grasped from beloved songs, invoking threads of nostalgia. There were images of lands that Starchild had dreamed of, and the paper smelled like the wild wind that only blows high above the earth. She knew at once that it had come from her Winged Girl, and her newly healed heart broke again. It broke each time a letter came, one every few days, always bearing the same message of regret and yearning for the past.

Everytime a letter comes, unsigned and expected, Starchild feels the tears come. And the pain comes. And her heart breaks over and over again. She loved the Winged Girl more than she ever thought possible, but she knows that the past cannot be changed. Broken trust cannot be reforged, broken dreams cannot be mended. A love built on lies was never love to begin with, only a beautiful delusion. And Starchild knows it is probably better this way.


'Sisi told Pico that he could never comprehend her, that her whole life was flight while he was doomed to trudge the dust, his lust for sky unrequited.
“But the kisses,” he said.
“They were only half kisses and this you know,” she told him. “I could never wholly kiss a wingless boy. The taste of sky is absent from your tongue.” And he felt that he knew this, that what he sought on her lips was what he lacked.' - The Book of Flying by Keith Miller

July Blues

This week has been a really tough one, emotionally speaking. On the 4th of July, my grandfather died. My sister and I ventured down to Columbus for the funeral, and while it was good to see my aunts and cousins who had to fly in, there was a lot of tension and bad energy in the air when my ex-stepmother decided to show up to pay her respects. As she cheated on my father when he was dying of cancer, was married again a month and a half after he died, and stole two hundred thousand dollars of inheritance money that was supposed to go to my sister and myself... Well, I was impressed that the arguing and death-glares were kept to a strict minimum.

They buried my grandfather in his WWII uniform, along with a satchel of love letters that he had saved from my grandmother, who had written him constantly during the war. It was a beautiful ceremony, the first half Catholic with purple robes and the embracing stone of a medieval church, stained glass rainbows flickering through the sweltering heat. The rosaries and Communion brought peace to the hearts of my sister, my aunts and uncles, and later, we walked to the graveyard where the air force soldiers waited. They played the taps, folded the flag, and knelt down to the ground, presenting it to my eldest cousin, Dustin. His strong shoulders bowed as he accepted the flag, and he started to cry. That is when my own heart burst open, and these tears began to flow. My sister and I held hands and cried together. "It feels like Dad died all over again," she told me, weeping. And it's true.

My grandfather left me a quilt that used to belong to my father when he was my age, hand-sewn by his grandmother. After my daddy died, my step-mother refused to give us anything that belonged to him. I had to fight tooth and nail, and call a lawyer, in order to get an old guitar that he had wanted me to half. That was it. My sister wasn't even allowed to get that much. All she has are images, blurry pictures that keep his face alive in our souls. I cried when I got the quilt. I buried my face into the fabric, expecting it to smell like him: cigarettes and cologne and safety and warmth. It didn't, but I feel better having it nearby. I was also allowed to take a few other things that had belonged to my grandpa: some of his name tags that had been sewn to his uniforms, some movies that I had watched over and over again with my father, and an amazing rock collection that had belonged to my grandmother. She was the one who made me obsessed with rocks, and I spent countless hours as a child just examining her collection, studying the giant quartz crystals and the shells, watching the colors flash and gleam into the most amazing of rainbows.

Once the funeral was over, it was a relief to come home. Angelboy was wonderful with me, spending all weekend at my mother's house. We spent a lot of time venturing into the jungle of my garden, admiring the growing cucumbers, the sprouting pea-pods, the dozens of melon blossoms. We watched hippie movies and listened to a lot of Janis Joplin and The Doors. We spent a weekend crafting together, our newest obsession being woodburning. I am working on a box for his drawing pencils and paint brushes, decorated with howling wolves and tribal paw prints. He is making a box for my art supplies, a beautiful faeriegirl kneeling on a mushroom, vines and flowers blooming from the corners of the wood.

He is truly so wonderful. I love his creativity, the passion he pours into every project, turning a simple object into such beauty. I love how we can spend hours together, side by side, trading supplies and watching the shadows lengthen and afternoon becomes evening becomes nighttime, and we are lost in the world of our own creation.

We watched movies that I had watched with my father, and he didn't even flinch when I got into a bad headspace and just started crying. I burst into tears and he held me tight, cradling me against him and letting me sob. Death has been occupying a lot of my thoughts this week, filling me with a terror and panic that makes it impossible to breathe. He switched off the movie with the battle scenes, and he popped in Finding Nemo, knowing that silly cartoons and sea turtles and fun fish would help take away the gremlinthoughts.

My heart still feels sore and tender. This week has brought up a lot of emotions that I had buried after losing my father, and it has been hard to enjoy the sunshine and beautiful weather. I feel like I need to hermit up again this week, taking the time to feel all of these feelings, to cry when I need to, to take better care of myself. This weekend, I will emerge again for more adventures with Angelboy, more hours of crafting together and movie watching and an amazing trip to the art museum.

Things are going to get better. I believe it.