„Why is it always terrible things that are thought to belong in life?“, I ask my witch over a midnight coffee.
Why always those that hurt and are unbearable?
Why heartbreak and falling apart?
Why never friendship and chimney fire?
Never love and chocolate.
Why still the shards left behind by things once loved?
Those shards, still good enough to open up skin.
Why never the sparkle that would keep it whole?
Why does a body endure,
and a soul yearn,
in a world with colors as an exception
when it was made of gray?
„Why always taxes and period cramps?“, she adds to the list as she starts another piece of cake.
Mistress witch writes 