Read The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One Page 3


  a distinct lack of

  smoke.

  - did you really think you’d get to mourn the house you set aflame?

  i don’t need you

  to write my story.

  i write it

  e v e r y d a y

  & you couldn’t

  even translate

  the fucking

  punctuation.

  - she.

  ready for a

  harsh truth?

  women

  don’t need

  your validation.

  we

  already have

  our own.

  - my self-worth shouldn’t feel like an act of bravery.

  men

  so often claim

  we’re

  mystery novels

  with

  collective symbolism

  simultaneously

  too shallow

  & too difficult

  for them

  to ever dream of

  understanding,

  so instead of

  taking the time to unravel

  our complex plots,

  they take

  the easy way out—

  pouring gasoline over us,

  flicking

  matches over

  their shoulders,

  &

  laughing as they

  walk away.

  - call us alexandria.

  following

  in the

  footsteps

  of that

  fool

  icarus,

  the men

  were

  tempted

  to fingertip-graze

  our impressive

  flames

  & had

  the nerve

  to be surprised

  when their

  manmade

  wax wings

  m

  e

  l

  t

  e

  d.

  - but try not to overreact, darling.

  don’t you know

  a woman’s anguish

  could cause

  e x p l o s i o n s

  in other

  dimensions?

  - if you don’t, you’re going to find out.

  burn whoever tries to burn you.

  - coven rule #2.

  III. the firestorm

  the lit matchsticks tumbletumbletumble their way towards us & stop dead just before the flames would lick hungrily at our toes. we squeeze our eyes shut, bracing ourselves for our violent end. the thick air reverberates with “i love you”s & “we will meet again”s, but the only thing that follows is silence. we reluctantly pry our eyes open when we hear the match-boys’ infuriated shouting in the background.

  “we would never dream of letting the match-boys use us to hurt you,” the smoke murmurs soothingly to us. “shhh, don’t worry. we will make them pay for this,” it whispers again, wrapping its way up & around our bodies until we’re consumed by a protective grey barrier.

  we use our combined powers to turn the matches around.

  the match-boys aren’t fast enough for us.

  - the third lesson in fire.

  they can

  hand us

  folded dresses.

  they can

  gift us

  virgin wings.

  they can

  force on us

  their names.

  they can

  lock us in

  small rooms.

  they can

  thieve

  our words.

  they can

  attempt to take

  our choices, too,

  but the one thing

  they can never

  steal?

  this

  fierce

  determination.

  - what june taught me.

  (homage to The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood)

  society

  wrapped

  a corset

  around us,

  fisted

  the strings

  & pulled

  tight

  as if

  tuning

  a new

  violin,

  &

  until we

  cut them

  away

  &

  pull out

  the

  bones

  we will

  never discover

  who we

  truly are.

  - unlearn this normalized self-hatred.

  we can

  be skinny

  & we can

  be content,

  but

  being skinny

  is not the

  same thing

  as being content.

  - we must come home from this everlasting battle.

  i appreciate:

  I. every roll.

  II. every scar.

  III. every acne mark.

  IV. every extra pound.

  V. every stretch mark.

  VI. every misplaced hair.

  VII. every bit of cellulite.

  VIII. the only body i have.

  - things i still struggle to say & that’s okay.

  if

  you can’t

  root for

  yourself,

  you don’t

  just

  cut down

  your tree

  in order

  to spite

  the

  ground.

  no—

  you breathe,

  step back,

  & give yourself

  the

  necessary

  room

  to flourish.

  - from the grimoire of the green witch.

  it’s

  more than

  okay

  to

  wake up

  with the

  overwhelming urge

  to cover up

  all the mirrors.

  self-love

  is not

  an instant

  nor an

  overnight

  evolution,

  but

  at least try

  to open up

  the windows

  to let the breeze in

  every once in awhile.

  - a witch knows mirrors do sometimes lie.

  sip

  the silky

  elixir

  from my

  cupped

  palms.

  go on,

  take as

  much

  or as little

  as you

  need.

  let it

  guide you

  into a

  grand

  love affair

  with yourself

  until

  the love

  becomes so

  second nature

  you need it

  no more.

  here,

  we’ll drink together.

  bottoms up.

  - self-love potion.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

>   you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

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  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  you have to eat. you have to eat. you have to eat.

  (homage to Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson)

  eat.

  fill yourself

  with energy,

  with sunlight.

  treat your body

  to tenderness &

  lavender.

  - we need you here & whole.

  i

  will be

  that voice

  that tells you

  to cover your arms

  with flower petals

  instead.

  - your winter will come to an end.

  dish:

  woman

  ingredients:

  I. sugar

  II. spite

  III. everything not-so-nice

  directions:

  I. preheat cauldron to 375 degrees.

  II. mix together ingredients in a medium

  to large bowl.

  III. add more spite if necessary. (& oh, will

  it be necessary.)

  IV. boil 10 to 12 minutes.

  V. eat. have the seconds&thirds&fourths

  you were always denied. lick fingers when

  done.

  - from the kitchen witch’s cookbook.

  “i don’t

  wear makeup for others

  the same way

  i don’t

  decorate

  my house for others.

  this is my

  home

  &

  everything i do

  is for

  me.”

  - tweet from september 28th, 2016.

  what

  i mean

  by that

  is

  i lost

  so

  many

  years

  of

  my life

  by being

  too

  exhausted/hunger-tired/

  depressed/winter-sick

  to get out

  of bed—

  having

  no choice

  but to stare endlessly

  at the walls

  where i ripped

  the rusty

  rosebud wallpaper

  off

  in

  thin strips

  with fragmented

  fingernails—

  to

  let you believe

  i only pushed myself

  through the

  obsessions/blood-crust/

  numbers/ink-bruises

  so i could

  paint a

  pretty little garden mural

  on the door

  for you & for you

  alone.

  - i’m not ashamed to say i’m my first priority.

  quenching

  his

  thirst

  is

  not

  the

  point

  of

  this

  life.

  - there is so much waiting for us.

  no

  matter

  what they

  tell you,

  it is

  not

  your job

  to be

  polite

  to anyone

  who

  is not

  polite

  to you

  first.

  - get up, you are nobody’s doormat.

  you are

  the lucky ace

  of the deck,

  a burning

  arrow

  piercing through

  their so-called

  hollow tree

  hatred.

  you. are.

  - embr(ace).

  paint

  your nails

  black,

  rub glitter

  on your

  face,

  take

  so many

  selfies,

  compliment

  all your

  sisters

  (no,

  not just

  your cis-ters),

  & hex
>
  any

  man

  who

  catcalls

  you.

  - a note from me scrawled on your mirror.

  “my body

  is a historic city

  & i’m the only one

  allowed to set

  the buildings

  ablaze.”

  - reclaim yourself.

  “bitch,” he spits.

  “witch,” he sneers.

  & i say,

  “actually, i’m both.”

  - reclaim everything.

  no,

  women

  are not

  vessels

  to f i l l

  w i t h

  y o u r

  desires.

  women:

  unique,

  original,

  creative,

  amazing,

  human.

  no copying

  or pasting

  can be

  done

  here.

  - the anti-manic pixie dream girl.

  i am not

  a keepsake

  you can tuck on your

  bookshelf

  between

  your bukowski

  & thoreau.

  i am not

  a dried daisy

  you can close

  in a shadowbox

  & hang just

  above your

  sleeping head.

  i am not

  your kindness

  participation

  trophy

  or anything

  for you to

  proudly own.

  sometimes

  friendship is the

  motherfucking

  prize,

  so be grateful

  i let you in

  at all.

  - THE FRIENDZONE DOESN’T EXIST.

  script

  for when

  he

  tells you

  you’re

  beautiful:

  “i know.”

  - confidence isn’t egotism.

  script

  for when

  he

  tells you

  to

  smile:

  “drop dead.”

  - confidence is healthy.

  when he tells you

  you would be nothing

  without him,

  i’ll hand you

  all the necessary

  tools.

  first,

  pour the coals

  down your throat.

  second,

  chase them down with

  your ready match.

  then you can

  feel assured when

  you tell him

  he’s been cleansed

  from you, body

  & soul,