Once, she consisted of many parts.
They granted her all shapes and forms to exist in this world.
Some parts were a daughter,
to be loved and protected and sometimes laughed with.
Some parts were a sister,
to be sometimes admired and often envied, and always cared for.
Some parts were a friend,
to enjoy to be heard and given words to.
Other parts were a wife,
to be there in the end and fold the shirts and warm the sheets.
The hidden parts were lovers,
to hide in an alley and be absorbed by flames.
… and when Dystopia scattered these parts, a scarred skin only covers an empty frame.
Still searching for new shapes and forms.
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 