I’ve spent centuries obsessed with evil
fingers bleeding from scrawling in notebooks,
searching for ways to banish it
to deep corners of space
away from us
where it takes souls,
twists them in black sorcery –
I wake up in Salem, trembling
witches burn, the smell of scalding flesh
the executioner removes his mask,
smiles – I fall into deep sleep
(Photo by Vladimir Agafonkin on Unsplash)
The Witch Queen nurses you to health and assures you
she means no harm – the people fear her because she’s
ageless and has wandered these woods for centuries,
speaking with wild animals and traversing the dark
landscape, looking for lost travelers.
She tends to their wounds, offers medicine in her hut,
then devours them in sexual ecstasy like they’ve
never experienced before. They all leave feeling better –
the Witch Queen is your friend, not your enemy.
(Photo by Miriam Espacio on Unsplash)
Note: This poem was inspired by a character in Old Gods of Appalachia, a horror anthology podcast that I’m currently obsessed with.
