I am not the granddaughter of the witches you couldn’t burn.
I am not the blood of their blood or any of that suburban white witch bullshit.
I am Witch because the title is mine to claim by right:
by right of my rage
by right of my resistance
by right of my existence in a world
that threatens to crush everything I love under the boot heel of assimilation.
You want Burning Times?
I’ll show you some motherfucking Burning Times.
by ONLYFRAGMENTS
© All rights reserved 2020
“Drink.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Drink, I say! You look very thirsty.”
“But… Hey, what are you doing?!”
Streams of water pour on me. I try to face away… I try to cry foul… but my voice drowns in the streams.
“Drink!”
I splutter. I cough. A gray dusty clot, almost weightless, lays inside my empty head. Dehydrated words are tied in a bunch like Chinese tea.
“Drink!”
I choke. I’m full of water. The words start to spin in the whirlpool and swell. The words take shape and color. The gray dusty clot unfolds inside my head… blossoms… and slowly fills the entire space. Now there’s nothing except a big moist poem here. My head is full of the poem, like a tiny teapot with beautiful blooming tea.
“Well, my girl… Now… do you realize how much you were thirsty?”
“Screw you…”
I wipe my wet face and cuss mildly. She smiles and says something… but I don’t listen to her. I open my laptop. WP Admin, Posts, Add New…
by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2015
unbolt me 