A witch once walked the earth with a heart ready to jump out of her chest.
Ready to burn. Attempting to drown.
Carrying the weight of a dying world, she needed to sense herself.
To see her face. To hear her voice.
But not in a mirror, and not in a lake, or in the window of houses never open for her.
A witch wanted to find herself in they eyes of him who knew darkness.
Who survived it. Who was bound to it. Who would face it again.
His eyes could mirror her.
Mirror the pain and the burden. The lake and the fire.
The witch was searching a dying world for his empathy.
His eyes to widen. His soul to recognize. For his warmth to be real.
But would he ever grant her this?
Would he eye the skin that was scarred by a world gone mad?
Would his heart listen to a voice too sweet and sad?
Would he who faced darkness ever recognize the witch?
And if not him, who else?
“Yes, who?”, I ask my witch with a shaking voice, not caring anymore about the coffee she had stolen once more.
Who would grant empathy in a dying world?
Mistress witch writes 