The Elegy Of Beatrice Rose

Narrative horror poem written 4-20-25. The Beatrice Cycle 2. Content warning: violent imagery, mental illness, suicide.

1.
When the darkness falls,
Will either of us 
Be found worthy
Of the light?

Which of me is me?
The waking girl,
Silly as she is,
Or that beautiful other

The black-haired goddess,
With my eyes,
Who rides with me,
As I walk the world?

2. 
My dreams had consequences,
As the cult of Beatrice Gold,
Bled out like spilled ink,
Into the world of Beatrice Rose

After emptying myself,
Into her life every night,
She finally emptied, 
Herself into mine

The yew tree thirsts,
And my mother and brother,
Fell to the curved blade,
She hid under my pillow

3.
The hospital is like any other,
Sad piss-colored walls,
Staff and doctors,
Following us like starving jackals

We wait to wait to wait,
But waiting is punctuated,
By sudden violence and terror,
And then everyone laughs

I try to make friends,
But everyone is wary,
Wounded and wakeful,
Angry and afraid

4.
One boy with watchful blue eyes,
Seems to care,
I feel a flushed combination,
Of excitement and terror

He has a mohawk,
Shaved sides fuzzy,
With short blonde hairs
That tickle my face

We hide away in secret places,
Shyly holding hands,
Stealing chaste kisses,
In the moments between therapy

5.
I start to feel sick,
Tired and scared,
Even when he’s there,
Especially when he’s there

As I get worse,
He seems to get better,
Brightening as I darken,
Laughing as I cry

Finally I begin to plan,
When to make the attempt,
But first I give him my guitar,
He accepts with a smile

6. 
The jagged night comes,
Blood drips down my arms,
To stain the cheap carpet,
Beneath the institutional walls

Against all odds, I live,
By the time I am free,
From the emergency stabilization unit,
My blonde boy is gone

I ask and I am told,
My heart sinks as I understand,
He knew he was being released,
He wanted a thrill

7.
I have since become feisty,
I sit in the Quiet Area,
For the twelfth time,
This week

The doctors think this is better,
That I am turning my anger,
Towards the world,
Instead of inwards

Beatrice Gold whispers in my ear,
Telling me the myth-cycles,
Of blood and tempests,
And angry young girls
 
8.
The doctors tell me she’s not there,
As she tells me their secrets,
So I can taunt them,
With my knowledge

They assure me,
There was no such person,
They need not bother,
I know she isn’t really real

But reality isn’t what it used to be,
Before that spring evening,
When I was eight years old,
And she came to me

9.
Even indoors the Moon is close,
I can feel Her silver light,
Reflecting off of my hair,
And pulling at my blood

The door of the Quiet Area,
Unlocks and opens,
And there my dark other stands,
Waiting for me

She hands me the curving knife,
And reminds me of my duty,
The debt that we all owe,
To the old yew tree

10.
It’s almost too easy,
The blade seems to dance,
My hands know their business,
As I work my way from room to room

No one awakens,
The other Beatrice has pulled sleep,
Across the darkened halls,
And silenced all the staff

At the end we share a moment,
Smiling and out of breath,
When we’re done we say it together,
“Beatrice is beautiful”