Nyx

There are days when the root of myself
feels like it was pulled, and tossed away from me.
I look for it in my old places—dinner with a friend
on the back patio as the sun sets, late night drives into the desert,
music my only companion. I sip my favorite teas then read the leaves;
I consult tarot cards hoping they can tell me
how to be whole again, where I can find what is lost.

The primordial being sees everything—
she came from Chaos when time sparked.
I call to her in the dark, anoint black candles—
light the match and she appears.

She wears the night sky like a gown,
stars drip from her inky hair;
her eyes glow like embers. She carries
the moon in her palm like a crystal ball—
She sounds smooth like velvet: You are not made of fire;
you fear your tempests and raging waters
will flood and destroy the earth you long for.
You have created hurricanes inside you, this is why
you feel unmoored. Let them out; cleanse this land.

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Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic.

Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write.

You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.