The witch had her cauldron ready.
It was ready, when eyes could not see.
It was hidden from a world that had forgotten to dream.
When the sun was rising reluctantly.
When the rain did not drum.
When the wind did not sing,
but scream.
When the void was forming.
When the shape was ready,
and it fit a lost someone.
When land had burned.
When bodies had failed.
When there was no way back,
but in dreams.
Then, the witch was pouring all over it,
was stirring it around,
holding on to the spoon.
The witch was summoning days this world had forgotten about.
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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