Through Dystopia’s eyes

She was fragile in those hands of his, scarred by a scattered world.
She was aching when touched by skin that was used to find wounds bleeding to death.
She was crippled in those eyes, used to storms and thunder with seeds drowning.
But sometimes, when she was smiling, her eyes were round, so unexpected round and sparkling.
Did he even know about this? Did he even know that this witch could smile?
Did anyone even see her gentle side, and her skin growing back to cover the bleeding wound in a soft rose?
Did anyone ever try to make her laugh, to touch her softly, or even tickle her skin?
Did anyone ever see her as a daughter, or a sister, or a wife? As someone once born and once belonging somewhere? As someone who sometimes needed protection, and who could speak in a soft and sweet voice, while also spreading her arms in love, when needed? As someone, who had all this human parts inside?
She would not be our witch, if anyone had ever considered her curves as soft, her voice a melody, and her breath as pure.
This witch was seen through nothing but the eyes of Dystopia, and those eyes had been breaking her apart, had wounded and had crippled her and had forced her existence to fit into this. Those eyes were so frightened by finding the black clot that transforms all life, they found it in her.

But the important thing is that still our witch had all these human parts inside of her.

There just was no one around to ever confirm their existence.
And some parts of us need to be seen, and spoken to, and touched and gentle.

---

I am writing this scared of what the next winter will bring and scared of having to let go of the few things I have recovered again. I still have these parts inside of me that I had so long believed to have gone last, but the pain when they are forced into silence is too much.