Witch

Tempestuous Testament

Anathema; Reviled and shunned, by my own hand, having written my own, detested story
Pages turned where the voice that speaks, my own, creaks with cursed harbingers –
That I am damned, and detested, within my own cruel, disordered mind
These sharp and rusty fragments do not dissipate in this ill begotten wind
That blows through the hollows beneath my cheeks, through stiff joints and swollen knuckles
Brushes the low curve of my spine producing tremors that embalm me like a thousand feral gnats
Lapping at my meringue flesh, pricking it with their tiny stiletto teeth, as if I am a succulent –
My plump flesh ripe and sweet
However, their hordes are merely demons smelling my earthy scent, a dead giveaway of my wretchedness
I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath
I call the clouds, the wind, to roil
To chastise myself for my grievous errors, upside down and sideways, singular and plural –
Threefold when webs cling to corners, and ruse slithers up the walls, my minds eye blinded –
Unfolding a collateral morn…
Debris crunches beneath these funeral boots, antiquities phantoms smeared upon their withered soles
Briar and bruise, cut and burn mars skin with a map resembling a tortured playground –
Like the one long ago where my 5 year old self first met its shadow…
A circular teeter totter from which I fell and broke my arm in two places; A greenstick fracture
There was no teetering… nor tottering… no movement… only sitting
Barely the space of a few feet between ground, and girl
The beginning of wreaking mayhem on myself for my helplessness to exterminate abominations
How else could this occur?
Perhaps I bore marshmallow bones?
Or were they volcanic; Full of holes and feather light?
Some believe that there are accidents, but the rest of us know there aren’t
From the time that I could tie my shoelaces
My mind at war with itself
My heavy eyes observed the intricacies of the universe –
The pecking order of oblivious mannequins
There are few saviors, and none blessed me with their good deeds during those 2am night terrors
As, swept up in soft arms, we would creep into the brittle, cold night air…
When he, fulcrum to her lever
Ran amuck through the wormwood fields, leafy oils seeping through his skin, staining it green
Until his mind was gone and his demons breathed, inhaled her forlorn miseries –
Throwing them back at her in a cyclone of blood
Brutal, metal zig-zag teeth leaving bite marks on her tender faith
Droplets of bitter crimson climbing up the hem of her precious wedding gown
The only bit of good in the bad; She would not collapse, would not pass onto her offspring the feeling of forfeiture
But even with her clever, feline, agile tenaciousness
Her medicinal, crafty armamentarium of spotless, contemplative infinities, intuitive planes, and transcendental artistry
She could not separate the heart from the hurt, the child from the tarnish, the soul from the shame
I am a product of primitive gardens; Seeds that bloom threads of dark divination –
Harms that need not be human faults, though they be!
I screech and scream in red splattered so brutally across creamy walls that it settles; Into silence –
I am a ghost in Time magazine photographs
Bleeding and bled yet revived and fueled by fury; A porcelain pinata exploding with a parched bloodlust
Come Fall I feel its nearing –
That inky wash staining my skin and eyes
Its dark, dreary appendages, spider-leg fingers reaching for my spirit, clawing at my dreams
A childs memory mottled with guilt
Its skulking shadows magnified on the wall in the candles flame
I am a chromatic aberration, circles of confusion along the path of chronic calculations –
Energy exhausted, to determine sacred ground, where my eyes need not plead for, nor fear… love
Mugwort tea to bless my dreams, yet knowing that I can’t undo those parts of me that now travel through each lifetime
I can’t spell an answer when the question is irrelevant –
Whatever determines what remains, so shall it be
And I can scream red, can cut off these scars, dig deep and long, break these wicked bones rip my hair, my lashes
I can rage that I will not become the results of blights, and plagues, and ravages –

Of brutal things wrapped in pretty bows (vile atrocities should be thrown to hell, but even hell doesn’t want them)

I can fight the good fight, but as the long, grey shadows of fall slink over my face with their cold, wet tongues
I am all I am, and although I loathe certain things that have brought me here
I loathe the abandonment of myself even more

I could not save her from his thieving arms
I was a child with an angelic spirit whose wings were torn, ripped from their tender seams
Left on the floor in a crumpled heap, in their shattered bedroom –
Holes and glass, metal and wood, paper and pierced photographs; What vile dream is this?
My child is a monster
I invoke the clouds, the wind to roil at her strength
While my wicked eyes send heartbroken tears down my lonely, empty face

I am witch
I seek no harm to others, only to myself, and on my behalf must admit that I am full of wrath

Swallowed

Mourning Grey Tears

He flew down in raven form
Dark silky hair and deep eyes, talons set to clutch something soft
Perched on the highest limb, narrowed focus on my open heart
I painted my pain on his chest after the first betrayal, and asked him –
Is love worth protecting?
I bathed him in my tears, after the second betrayal, and asked him –
What is there without truth?
He hoarded infidelities, like they were candied jewels to build his nest
Chattering lies while declaring love
I wrote my sorrow in the sky
Words that sucked up the warmth of the night, spit out winters breath –
Infested my heart with devastation that crept into an icy catacomb of hopelessness
His razor beak shattering it into crystal splinters that spilled onto the concrete steps
Each shard a lyrical chime of loss
I asked him to look at the sunlight on the wall and tell me –
Why aren’t your actions shadows of your words?
But his response was to fly into the sky and puncture the stars until darkness swallowed my voice
I will always be his haunting; his ghost wrapped around me beneath my skin
He will keep me a mystery –
Put me in a dusty corner of his mind, where the breeze never stirs, behind the 13th door
He’ll scratch at the soft earth, bury my name and fly on
He wanted my love and devotion
While he gave his to the magpie, her deceitful nest full of sorrow and bones, life leeched from lovers by her acid soul
He wanted to wring from me every drop of life –
Then leave me in the field like a brittle scarecrow…
Vacant eyes, empty heart, wordless voice…
Waiting for someone to come along and cut open my mouth
So I could scream my piercing pain
Let it bounce off of the crumbling mountains
Let the wind carry it until it found him and tucked itself beneath his wings
Ferrying him until the day his barren, corpse heart strummed its last beat
And he lay on the mountain, decaying into the soft earth
Feathers, bones and flesh congealing into a silent, calm nothingness
No longer a torrent or a torment stealing my comfort –
Chaining my mind to crucifying nightmares that induced lacy vomited wretchedness –
Growing sorrow that withered newborn seeds of love
I thought that he might love me and eventually lie beside me in deaths peacefulness
Such beauty that drew my heart but such ugliness that broke my spirit…
Why he slowly strangled our chance at a life together is anyone’s guess –
I doubt that even he knows
And so my pain, tears and sorrow mark our grave, and I ask him –
Did you ever love me?
And we both know that although he says “Yes, I’ve always loved you – I love you now,”
Too much damage has been done and it’s too late to believe
Even though he might have finally realized that love is worth protecting
And he is finally, actually telling the truth
The canyons sing our sad love song
Weeping tears tortured in 13 ways
13 Eternal scars upon my abandoned heart
To remember him by