Licking the Trap of the Green Fairy

Magpie had insisted on sharing her absinthe.
She just forgot how I like mine served.

Now she sleeps where the bottle fell,
dreaming in green fumes and laughter.

Raven stands over her,
dagger glinting, glass in hand—
a slow swirl of crimson and emerald,
the flavor of Magpie’s pulse steeped in wormwood.

She lets it drizzle from the blade,
over her lips, her throat, her skin,
then sets the glass aside with a sigh.

What story will Magpie tell
when she wakes in the morning
and the others ask about that mark?

I will of course deny everything. 🍷