The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One
Page 3
their words
will always have
a distinct lack of
smoke.
-did you really think you’d get to mourn the house you set aflame?
i don’t need you
to write my story.
i write it
e v e r y d a y
& you couldn’t
even translate
the fucking
punctuation.
- she.
ready for a
harsh truth?
women
don’t need
your validation.
we
already have
our own.
- my self-worth shouldn’t feel like an act of bravery.
men
so often claim
we’re
mystery novels
with
collective symbolism
simultaneously
too shallow
& too difficult
for them
to ever dream of
understanding,
so instead of
taking the time to unravel
our complex plots,
they take
the easy way out—
pouring gasoline over us,
flicking
matches over
their shoulders,
&
laughing as they
walk away.
- call us alexandria.
following
in the
footsteps
of that
fool
icarus,
the men
were
tempted
to fingertip-graze
our impressive
flames
& had
the nerve
to be surprised
when their
manmade
wax wings
m
e
l
t
e
d.
- but try not to overreact, darling.
don’t you know
a woman’s anguish
could cause
e x p l o s i o n s
in other
dimensions?
- if you don’t, you’re going to find out.
burn whoever tries to burn you.
- coven rule #2.
III. the firestorm
the lit matchsticks tumbletumbletumble their way towards us & stop dead just before the flames would lick hungrily at our toes. we squeeze our eyes shut, bracing ourselves for our violent end. the thick air reverberates with “i love you”s & “we will meet again”s, but the only thing that follows is silence. we reluctantly pry our eyes open when we hear the match-boys’ infuriated shouting in the background.
“we would never dream of letting the match-boys use us to hurt you,” the smoke murmurs soothingly to us. “shhh, don’t worry. we will make them pay for this,” it whispers again, wrapping its way up & around our bodies until we’re consumed by a protective grey barrier.
we use our combined powers to turn the matches around.
the match-boys aren’t fast enough for us.
- the third lesson in fire.
they can
hand us
folded dresses.
they can
gift us
virgin wings.
they can
force on us
their names.
they can
lock us in
small rooms.
they can
thieve
our words.
they can
attempt to take
our choices, too,
but the one thing
they can never
steal?
this
fierce
determination.
- what june taught me.
(homage to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood)
society
wrapped
a corset
around us,
fisted
the strings
& pulled
tight
as if
tuning
a new
violin,
&
until we
cut them
away
&
pull out
the
bones
we will
never discover
who we
truly are.
- unlearn this normalized self-hatred.
we can
be skinny
& we can
be content,
but
being skinny
is not the
same thing
as being content.
- we must come home from this everlasting battle.
i appreciate:
I.every roll.
II.every scar.
III.every acne mark.
IV.every extra pound.
V.every stretch mark.
VI.every misplaced hair.
VII.every bit of cellulite.
VIII.the only body i have.
- things i still struggle to say & that’s okay.
if
you can’t
root for
yourself,
you don’t
just
cut down
your tree
in order
to spite
the
ground.
no—
you breathe,
step back,
& give yourself
the
necessary
room
to flourish.
- from the grimoire of the green witch.
it’s
more than
okay
to
wake up
with the
overwhelming urge
to cover up
all the mirrors.
self-love
is not
an instant
nor an
overnight
evolution,
but
at least try
to open up
the windows
to let the breeze in
every once in awhile.
- a witch knows mirrors do sometimes lie.
sip
the silky
elixir
from my
cupped
palms.
go on,
take as
much
or as little
as you
need.
let it
guide you
into a
grand
love affair
with yourself
until
the love
becomes so
second nature
you need it
no more.
here,
we’ll drink together.
bottoms up.
- self-love potion.
you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.
you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.
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you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.
you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.
you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.
(homage to Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson)
eat.
fill yourself
with energy,
with sunlight.
treat your body
to tenderness &
lavender.
- we need you here & whole.
i
will be
that voice
that tells you
to cover your arms
with flower petals
instead.
- your winter will come to an end.
dish:
woman
ingredients:
I. sugar
II. spite
III. everything not-so-nice
directions:
I. preheat cauldron to 375 degrees.
II. mix together ingredients in a medium
to large bowl.
III. add more spite if necessary. (& oh, will
it be necessary.)
IV. boil 10 to 12 minutes.
V. eat. have the seconds&thirds&fourths
you were always denied. lick fingers when
done.
- from the kitchen witch’s cookbook.
“i don’t
wear makeup for others
the same way
i don’t
decorate
my house for others.
this is my
home
&
everything i do
is for
me.”
- tweet from september 28th, 2016.
what
i mean
by that
is
i lost
so
many
years
of
my life
by being
too
exhausted/hunger-tired/
depressed/winter-sick
to get out
of bed—
having
no choice
but to stare endlessly
at the walls
where i ripped
the rusty
rosebud wallpaper
off
in
thin strips
with fragmented
fingernails—
to
let you believe
i only pushed myself
through the
obsessions/blood-crust/
numbers/ink-bruises
so i could
paint a
pretty little garden mural
on the door
for you & for you
alone.
- i’m not ashamed to say i’m my first priority.
quenching
his
thirst
is
not
the
point
of
this
life.
- there is so much waiting for us.
no
matter
what they
tell you,
it is
not
your job
to be
polite
to anyone
who
is not
polite
to you
first.
- get up, you are nobody’s doormat.
you are
the lucky ace
of the deck,
a burning
arrow
piercing through
their so-called
hollow tree
hatred.
you. are.
- embr(ace).
paint
your nails
black,
rub glitter
on your
face,
take
so many
selfies,
compliment
all your
sisters
(no,
not ju
st
your cis-ters),
& hex
any
man
who
catcalls
you.
- a note from me scrawled on your mirror.
“my body
is a historic city
& i’m the only one
allowed to set
the buildings
ablaze.”
- reclaim yourself.
“bitch,” he spits.
“witch,” he sneers.
& i say,
“actually, i’m both.”
- reclaim everything.
no,
women
are not
vessels
to f i l l
w i t h
y o u r
desires.
women:
unique,
original,
creative,
amazing,
human.
no copying
or pasting
can be
done
here.
- the anti-manic pixie dream girl.
i am not
a keepsake
you can tuck on your
bookshelf
between
your bukowski
& thoreau.
i am not
a dried daisy
you can close
in a shadowbox
& hang just
above your
sleeping head.
i am not
your kindness
participation
trophy
or anything
for you to
proudly own.
sometimes
friendship is the
motherfucking
prize,
so be grateful
i let you in
at all.
- THE FRIENDZONE DOESN’T EXIST.
script
for when
he
tells you
you’re
beautiful:
“i know.”
- confidence isn’t egotism.
script
for when
he
tells you
to
smile:
“drop dead.”
- confidence is healthy.
when he tells you
you would be nothing
without him,
i’ll hand you
all the necessary
tools.
first,
pour the coals
down your throat.
second,
chase them down with
your ready match.
then you can
feel assured when
you tell him
he’s been cleansed