What makes a person, Layla?
Is it two arms and legs,
and eyes to see,
and a voice to speak with,
and blood to spill?
Maybe, he saw me as a person.
He did not see
that all I ever did was vibrating
on that very last frequency
that was left by better days.
He saw me as one,
but I think I‘m not a person anymore.
He saw me as a person,
when he touched those
arms and hands
and lips and breasts
and never realized that there was blood to spill.
Maybe,
I have been breaking myself into 100 unheard frequencies
and through those veins
in arms and legs
and lips and breasts
runs blood burned up
by just another witching dream.
There was another one
that saw the flames
and felt them
running in this blood
and touched those
arms and hands
and lips and breasts
and knew.
„Maybe, I‘m a witch“, I say.
Layla nods. „I wanted a world in which I could have been his witch“, she says, as she attempts to cook a violet cloud.
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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