The coffee is cold.
The cake untouched.
„I don‘t want to be a tragedy.“
I don‘t want to be a tragedy,
but this body was made of
flesh and blood and bones!
I want to feel the sun,
with skin so fragile.
I want to breathe in so deep,
into lungs that could collapse.
I want to love with a heart,
ready to ache.
What were my tears made for,
if not to be shed?
How do we know about pain,
if it wasn‘t felt?
Does darkness always fall?
My witch steals my piece of cake and leaves me alone with cold coffee.
“You made me a tragedy in there”, she snaps, eyeing the printed pages on my desk.
“That’s just what my brain does”, I admit into my cold cup of coffee.
Mistress witch writes 