The Honey Witch

by Sydney J. Shields

for all the impossible girls.

The springtime buds that decorate the earth remind her of childhood when she wanted to grow up to be a flower.

“One day, I will be a rose. And I will plant myself somewhere so beautiful that I will never want to leave.” Her mother laughed. “And what if someone wants to pluck you?” “That is what the thorns are for,” she said.

On a night like this, when the blue moon is full and bursting with light like summer fruit, she wants nothing more than to bathe in the moon water that now floods the riverbanks. She wants to sing poorly with no judgment, wearing nothing but the night sky.

there is great wisdom to be found in heartbreak.

These are the wild women who run barefoot through the meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moon together. Wild women are their own kind of magic.

It would be like painting the walls of her life beige. It would be a safe choice, a comfortable choice that no one could fault her for, but it does mean that every day she would have to sit in her room and look at her beige walls and wonder what could have been if she had painted them bright yellow or pink. What if she had forgone paint entirely? Or better yet, what if there were no walls at all? Only sky, sunlight, salty water, fresh rain, and spring flowers and no one else around to comment on the paint color of the walls. That would be perfect, and that is why it is only a dream.

like he was trying to mold her into a different shape, make it so she took up less space in every room.

what is so wrong about being a bitch? It is the closest a girl can be to a wolf.

I intend to run out to the meadow barefoot and soak up the blue moonlight. I intend to sing loudly, to dance freely, maybe even scream if I wish. I intend to ruin this dress with the mud and the rain.

Her mother loves to remind her of her age, as if it is a reason to stop believing in magic.

she is a grown woman, and is that not magical in itself? To have survived this long, despite the world’s penchant for beautiful dead girls? Marigold has grown up surrounded by the poets who propel the narrative—how romantic to die young, unstretched, unsullied, without ever outgrowing the part of the ingenue. But what happens when the girl keeps living, when she ages proudly and defiantly, without abandoning imagination, or stories, or that secret wish to find magic wherever it hides? Well, then the poets would call her a witch.

better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped...

It is better to be lost in a beautiful daydream than trapped in a dim reality.

‘When I saw him for the first time, it was as if I recognized him from another life. Every other life, in fact. He was beside me through them all.

She fills her day with her favorite things—summer fruit, Earl Grey tea, spell casting, and honeybees. Fresh sunflowers, yellow ribbons, daydreams, and lullabies.

grief moves with the seasons. It blooms and rots and shrinks and grows, and just like the winter, it cannot last forever.

Honey is a miracle in itself; when stored properly, it is the only food in the world that never spoils.

I love whom I love, without question, and sometimes without logic.”

we were meant to be more like siblings and the truest kind of friends. The ones who never leave,”

she is so much more than beautiful. She is marked with bravery, with artistry, with so many stories.

the world is quite nice, but only if you know where to look. Friendships are harder to break than you think, and you will not outgrow the ones that are the most important. Heartbreak is inevitable, but so is healing, so don’t be afraid to fall in love freely and often.

For Lottie’s kiss, she would forsake all else. For her love, she would undo legacies.

People think of loneliness as a feeling, but it’s a presence. It’s a living thing that takes the shape of the company you wish you had.