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.
I wish I’d told you all my stories.
I want to tell you all my storiesIt’s not that they would changeIt’s just that I would likeTo see themFormA new expressionOn your face I need to tell you all my storiesI am not sureIf they makeSenseThe way I thoughtThey do. I will tell you all my storiesThey frighten meI’m sure you won’t endureI see…
Dealing with darkness in writing
This spring afternoon is glowing pink and tastes like strong tea. It feels much too familiar, and I begin to open up.I feel far away from myself as I start to talk, to babble on about my novel. About all the things I’ve been reading about in the past 5 years. About the 17th century,…
Radical witching novel rewrites at 4 AM!
I wore the same night dress my witch used to wear to get drunk on my windowsill, when I suddenly had an idea at 4 AM. Great ideas always happen at 4 AM, remember? This one however, kept me awake for at least a week, debating it back and forth. At some point my witch…
Mistress witch writes 