Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Feminine Witchcraft

I am the sweet spawn of Salem,
singing mad melodies to the moon,
smiling wide, up at the pretty, pink sky,
before I am gone,
lost in the wind.
A war zone,
a graveyard of promises and premeditated pedantry.

I have never belonged to anyone,
not really,
though many have masqueraded and pretended to themselves because they desperately wanted it to be so.
I have put a spell on a monster without lifting my eyes from the lilac in my garden.

I have his attention,
his demands and his damned delusion,
but I never asked for them,
and I never cast this into existence,
but there he stands,
gaunt and gargling at my gate,
his claws pawing at freshly painted fences,
drooling on the dirt as he drags his knuckles through my flower beds.

He is furious.
Growing more and more red and sore,
louder and louder,
every time I point towards the exit,
and ask him to stop existing with such masculine entitlement in my universe.

I don’t want to curse a bitch,
but he’s asking for it.
Asks if I’m a trauma victim,
asks about who I’ve been talking to,
like it’s any of his business.
He points at the rosary around my neck,
and the woman between my thighs and he just wails,
pointing at his tiny, unwanted pointy thing,
tears of distress and shame as he tries to forget the fact that he’s not wanted here.

I don’t want to curse a bitch,
but he’s asking for it.
Asking me to stop excluding him from what is, in fact an exclusive club.
Asking to be an exception.
I make him an example.
There is no curse.
Just a head, on a spike, atop my gate,
to keep all the other monsters away.

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