Before my witch, fall
lived eternal in my bones,
the world whipped me raw.
My screams meant nothing to man,
till she howled with me… for blood.
The moon spun bright and dark and again… unburied lies burned magic out of my witch’s skin. “It’s our right,” the people said to each other, accused her of viciousness, and bled historic hurts believed healed. “Freaks will scream for coin, make us rich. They like that.”
I wasn’t born to rip or tear, but society’s stones sharpened my teeth.
They destroyed our door
and unmade our home—
“For safety”, they said,
as the horde enjoyed the show,
paying flesh to watch freaks bleed.
There’s blood on the world’s stage, bone bits… and scars turned armor on my witch and me.
artwork, by Shelle Kennedy