I bleed like Vanilla.
Why is he not here to lick my leaking soul?
My leaking soul that loses sweet daydreams everywhere it goes as small drops of joy turning into a sea to drown in.
Why aren‘t his eyes, his lips, his hands closer to the hole that opened up, that his presence opened up. Leaking out so sweet for eyes, and hands, and a presence too sweet to ever hurt enough to stop it from surviving the horrors he inflicted.
Your witch is bleeding vanilla.
Opening up her leaking soul.
Having her dreams drop out.
Drink from me, or one of us is going to drown.
Why I am not a nice girl
I am not your nice, Christian girl next door, as you might have noticed. And this is not a role I play for this blogging project, or to promote my writing and music. This is me, and I stick to it, even when it gets complicated, and believe me: It becomes an issue more often…
Intimate tale
I yearn for those moments,When I existedsolelyin your eyes.When I wasnothingBut an image causingCuriosity.I lived in those momentsWhen you knewNothingAbout the scarsBetween myThighs.Moments that werePure and softAnd kept mySecretWithout anyFalsity.In those momentsI felt loveFor all the thingsYou mustn’tKnow.All the thingsWent looseWithin myHeadAnd found their wayOnto myTongue.I still amThese momentsWhen I hadYouAnd you deniedThe thingsI wanted…
The tale of mental health in a burning world
“Wanna feel better?”, my witch asks me as she presents tonight’s options. Do we want to get drunk and risk a headache? Do we want to try out yoga again although we’ve never managed to take it seriously? Do we want to escape the last traces of reality by watching a sitcom and ignoring the…
Mistress witch writes 
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