Is This Fiction?

     The jawbone sits on my windowsill. I’m not sure why I picked it up, or why I was even in the forest that day. All I know is that I did pick it up, and I put it in my pocket as if it was a secret. I didn’t let anyone know that it was in there and then when I came home I delicately placed it by the window, as if I wanted it to be able to have a nice view. I cracked open the window for it to get some air. I didn’t wash my hands after even though I should’ve because I wanted the feeling of the bones I picked up to linger on my skin. I wanted to touch my face with the jawbone. Some of the teeth were still attached.

I stare at it sometimes and I wonder who it used to be. I wonder how long it had been there before I picked it up and I wonder what it means that I wanted it so bad. 

I often daydream about such things. I want the jawbone to be alive. I want to go into nature and free bleed into the water on a full moon. I want to squeeze water from moss and drink it. 

I often feel like there’s something missing in my life. I want to know where my blood came from, I want to go to those people. My blood is in so many places, it’s in Arizona, it’s in Mexico, it’s in Ireland. Ireland is so cold and I wonder if it even wants my blood there. My hair is so curly. 

I picked up a book the other day about spirits. I started reading it and I really liked it but I got upset when I found out a man wrote it. Not because I hate men (although sometimes I do), but because sometimes, to me, it feels that men don’t have a place in the Craft. 

I know that this is not true, but it feels true. A man sits there with nothing in his womb, no creation. He does not bleed into the earth. He is not connected to the moon. 

Maybe he is connected to something else, something I’m not supposed to know. Maybe that is the point. 

I know that biology is not all that I am but I want to go and bloom like a flower in the soil. I want to sit under the stars and know that they are seeing me like I’m seeing them. I want to taste the Earth, I want to be dirty. I want to understand the Mother and feel her cradle me in her arms. I want to touch my face with the jawbone I found in a rotting carcass on the ground. 

I often wonder which one is real. By that I mean, there are so many religions and a million deities and they all think that they are right. Is a God just as fallible as a man? Is God a man? (No.) If there was one true God, She would be a Woman because in her womb would be the Earth. 

But there is no one true God. There is just the Earth, the Mother, and the spirits that men apparently get to write about, some of which live in jawbones in carcasses in the soil and then on windowsills. 

They say to never accept a gift from a Faerie, but I didn’t say thank you. I took it like it was mine, like it belonged to me. And now it does but it doesn’t. And I don’t belong to myself but I do belong to the Earth.

Love,

    Secret