My god is an ordinary girl. My god is fourteen years old, my god has brown teeth and wrinkled skin. My god is perched in an oak tree, cradled and cradling. She’s got moss under her fingernails and a skull full of sky. My god can’t spell. She can’t add either. My god’s breath sours overnight. She leaves bitter notes in the shower steam that fogs the bathroom mirror. She’s pulling the Ace of Bows again. She’s forgotten who she is. My god is surrounded by candles dripping lilac and heaven. My god is blocked and wailing — all she wants is to be worshipped. Is that so hard?
My god is thirty-four years old. She can’t see for coating her lashes in castor oil. She’s filling time and letting time slip away. My god has night terrors. She likes to pretend she’s not a god by worshipping ordinary people and things. She kneels at strange altars that smell of cold cream and fish fat.
My god keeps being discarded. She’s never been good enough but sometimes she’ll do. My god laps up attention like poison. She bristles at affection. My god has no interests and a hundred and one secret obsessions. My god isn’t allowed on the bed. My god steals ideas. She’s so powerless, almost human. My god learned to drive, can yours? My god bought her own castle and filled it with roses and dogs. Her husband is a werewolf.
My god remembers everything in perfect detail. Mortals come to her for advice. She is a bubbling cauldron cloaked in velvet. My god is scarred and tattooed. Her cheeks hurt from smiling. My god is an optimist; she believes cult status is possible. Her ominous portrait hangs in the hall. She hasn’t been seen in public for decades but her selfies get millions of likes on Instagram. My god shimmies in the panthered dark. She pries into lost catacombs and stirs something young from the decrepit dust.
My god is all grown-up. She blooms late and long. My god’s grizzled hair is falling out. Her skull is beautiful. My god’s bones don’t melt into the earth, they calcify under the moon: permeable; celestial; wreathed in peppery fumes because I finally learned to worship my god like she craved.
My god watches me with milky newborn eyes. My god sees me for who I am, she knows my deepest secrets. She leaves me offerings and signs in shady groves. She appears to me in dreams and empty supermarket aisles. She’s the voice in my head that sings blood-pounding melodies. A recurring epiphany. The root of every transgression and triumph.
Blessed hag of unauthored souls; lupercalic icon; god of wild, moonlit me.
Kate xx
I’d planned to send this letter to paid subscribers only but changed my mind. I hope you enjoy this insight into Selkie Grove's “dusk letters”.
p.s. Have you seen Blood Tea and Red String? It was released 17 years ago but I only watched it recently. This dark, handmade fairytale about a band of aristocratic white mice and the Creatures Who Live Under The Oak captivated me. There’s clear horror, but the stop-motion animation, spellbinding soundtrack, and intricate details are somehow hypnotic and beautiful.