Moonlight on skin.
An empty bottle.
A cheek on the pavement.
“I don’t want to be nowhere anymore.”
Every witch once had a home, remember? Before Dystopia, a witch belonged somewhere, but was chased away. You need a home to spit you out into the night to become a witch.
But where do they go?
After their body was killed but could not die?
After their soul was denied, but never stopped existing?
After they suffocated, but never stopped screaming?
The witch lifts up her head, revealing a cheek engraved with sand and stones to the blood moon. She does not have to go anywhere.
They will come to her.
The devils, the demons, the shadows.
The creatures everyone avoids!
They are ready to prey upon her.
To remind her of things that tear her insides apart.
To ask of her the most heartbreaking things!
Knowing she won’t fight.
She might scream, might sing!
The difference does not matter at night!
Sing, scream, plead!
Hearts break either way.
“I want to go home”, I tell my witch after drinking the last sip of wine, and she just laughs as we listen to the darkest of demands of a world gone mad.
I forgot where home was.
Mistress witch writes 