It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think?
This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know now as this tumultuous moon rises, as your inquisitive words mingle with the chaotic moonlight and alchemize a truth serum more powerful than any wielded by the faithless ones. I’ll share anything you really want to know. My psychic landscape is yours to walk now, but I must warn you that the terrain is still encumbered by all manner of trip-wire vines and woman-made traps leftover from a Winter gone too long. I don’t even remember where they are or why I built them, but I know they’ll swallow even you, even the most cunning of sorceresses, should they suspect a poisonous intent.
Ask me anything, my love. Know that what little wisdom I have to share wasn’t won by luck, gleaned through boredom, or freely given to me. I’m no trust-fund Witch. What I know has been picked clean from the bones of who I used to be, sniffed out from spells gone wrong and waking dream-visions so potent I remember them like I remember the feckless days of our youth. I’ve written and rewritten every recipe I’ve got with my own aching hands, and I learned the moon-language of curse-and-light one word at a time.
This is still my house, freak. I know you know this, but I must tell you that cracking my wily and wicked mind open will change you more than it changes me. I live drenched in that once-hexed-now-blessed rainbow blood, after all. I live with skin painted by the sweet, mossy greens of my wild childhood and bones stained by the muck of toxic betrayals and spiritual circle-jerks. Go ahead and wake the demons sleeping in the backwater bedrooms of my subconscious. Maybe you’ll learn something; their tongues drip a stronger medicine than I’ll ever brew. Go ahead and open all the cobwebbed jars, stir up the stale energies in the corners, and peak into the stuck-open drawers. I hope you find what you’re looking for in those precious shadows, and I hope you learn what a secret really is from those crystalline horrors you’re mining from my psychic caverns.
This is still my house, freak, but what of yours? You visit me when you’re thirsty for that particular injection of bitter magick you get from my haunted story-telling and word-witchery, but you’ve never given me the hand-drawn map to your cabin in the woods. How will I find you when I want to be warm-blanketed by your flame-tending wisdom? It gets eerily quiet here, and the weather is unsettled these days. Might I walk inside your fairy-tale mistlands for a time? I grow weary of the doom-and-gloom that is me, after all, and your pink-petaled passion is precisely the salve I need for these wounds that will never heal, for these bruise-tattoos I acquired so long ago in the wilds between heaven and home.
This is still my house, freak. While you’re here, teach me how to say “hope” in the raven’s tongue, and I’ll share what I know about the spiral dance of time. Teach me how to grow my roses to be blood-red, and I’ll teach you how to craft dark-n-beauteous Witch bottles from their thorns. You’ve caught me on a day when I’m an open Book of Shadows, so best read this script before the waning moon reminds me why I build high walls around my heart, why I lock up my ceremonies and bury the key under my skin.
I do hope you’ll come again, sweet sister. It’s freaks like you who make this life worth living. I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, and you’ll remember the way back, I’m sure. Find me here naked and drunk on midnight sunshine at Litha, crowned with antlers and riding a horned god at Mabon, covered in candle-wax and pine needles at Yule, and here again in the days after an Ostara gone-too-quickly, spitting out all the poetry I’ve got and hoping you’ll hear me, hoping you’ll get that perfect dose of early Spring passion colored modestly with light and dark in equal parts.
This is still my house, freak, and, as always, I didn’t know I was lonely until you arrived.
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It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think? This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know […] -
It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think? This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know […] -
It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think? This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know […]
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It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think? This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know […] -
It’s been too long, heathen. How I’ve missed those black-mirror eyes of yours! How I’ve missed those twisted-mouth expressions that relentlessly pull the secrets from my depths like a disembowelment crank. We may as well skip the formalities, don’t you think? This is still my house, freak. Tell me what you really want to know […]
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