Manic Pixie Dragon Queen

by Audrey El-Osta

I

in my tweed cocoon, I cradle
honeysoy chai chased with black
ciggies gazing out to a tramlined
horizon.

She emerges genteel, yet bouncing
off rubber clouds of airflex souls.
an unlabelable belle, I see her
everywhere:
café, tramstop, bookshop, jazz club.

I wonder what on earth could be
going on in that pretty little head as she
reads her poetry
I cast my line, entertain my Romantic desires.
I hear her laugh; it’s a nightingale song.

II

He takes me to that stupid movie with the
sad white girl in it, you know the one,
there’s a forbidden love and her dad doesn’t approve?
He follows it up with a weak ass cocktail, and takes me
back to his. You don’t expect that I’d like you enough
to want that, and you’d be right, I’m only here for one thing.

I am not the first girl you tried your pick-ups
on, thinking that a shared interest in music
and a bubbly personality laughing at your
misanthropic punch-lines entitled you to think
that we’re destiny.

III

unzip the dress and peel the stockings,
wrestle with a brassiere to reveal
and her body in its soft, porcelain glory.
You stammer, splutter, stutter
“How could this be, you’re so-“
“-Perfect? I know.”

I devour, desperately, savour the moment before
It’s over , before I am taken, before I am one with her,
in ecstasy, shock and relief, I am devoured, I am devourer.
I am not fucking, I am fuck.

IV

My skin turns from soft squish to scaled earthen forest brown,
glinting regal majesty in purple hide. The fingers pressed against
his shoulders now taloned claws piercing flesh and pinning down
for the teeth scraping against his neck, in that delightfully vague
kinky way, now fangs, ripping his throat open, sucking blood
to wash down my draconic feast. Wings unfurl, and head rears
with mouth open releasing a shrieking roar, breathing fire, feasting
until nothing remains.

And how could I possibly have had malicious
intentions, when my eyeliner looks just like Zooey’s?
How could I possibly have militant feminist rage
aflame within, when my dress is so cute and poofy?
How could I possibly be anything but perfect
with a sparkling name like Ruby?

You thought that liking the same beige indie bands
is tantamount to destiny, or bringing a blue french horn
to my door means you must be made for me,
but child no, not even the voice-guided can tame a dragon.

I return to put on my pastel gown to frolic about town
with a new face, choosing new targets for my tender love
and care. I pull an artery from my teeth, fix my lipstick,
gazing into tram ridden streets.

I am raging fury of the night
A tempest ravaging your streets
I am the inferno, and I am the 100-year winter.
I quake and break the earth, rip molten-flesh from rock-bone
I am hell, I am punishment
and I am retribution
I am the Manic Pixie Dragon Queen
I will save time and devour hearts
I live to destroy.

Audrey El-Osta is a Melbourne based writer, studying Linguistics and Psychology at Monash University. A collector of cookbooks, listener of audiobooks and reader of poetry, she lives with four cats and three humans that don’t quite measure up. Her work explores themes of femininity, sexuality and womanhood, mental illness, comedy and identity.

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