Yes, I'm a witch.
Let me clear some things up,

No, I don't practice voodoo.
No, I don't wear a pointy black hat.
No, I don't curse anyone, I only bless.
No I'm not evil.
No, I'm not Goth or hippie, don't categorize me.
No, I can't fly on a broomstick, no one can.
No, I don't worship Satan, I worship life and creation. 
No, I don't sacrifice animals, I just told you I worship life.
No, I'm not in a cult.
No, I can't make things float.
No, the pentacle and pentagram are NOT signs of Satan.

Witches aren't the same as gypsies,
men can be witches too,
witches do NOT summon demons,
witchcraft is not the same as paganism and/or Wicca,
witches don't possess people OR levitate.
witches are human,
witches can dress in whatever they want, not just black,
witchcraft IS a religious practice,
Wicca, paganism and witchcraft are all different than satanism.
 

100 years of being able to vote
and nothing ever changes. 
Women STILL aren't free to be present in their bodies.
Free to choose what their body is capable of
and to not be shamed for it's shape and size.
Did you ever consider looking at the density
of our hearts instead of our thighs and chests?
I'm sorry... am I being too loud?
Should I be quieter?
Am I distracting you?

Sorry my skirt is too short,
sorry my mom breastfed my baby sister in public,
sorry our baby is crying because shes hungry,
sorry I wore a crop-top to school,
sorry my clothes matter more to you than my education,
sorry its OUR fault for being cat-called,
sorry it's our fault for not listening,
sorry I was walking alone at night,
sorry I'm scared to walk anywhere now,
sorry I was talking back,
sorry I didn't chirp on command,
sorry I'm so distracting,
sorry I'm not distracting enough,

Raise your words, not your voice.

Sometimes it’s hard to listen to yourself,
sometimes it’s hard to hear your voice
above the screaming masses.

Just take a moment,
or as many as you need,
to be quiet.

We are all bright.

Don't shout or whisper,
just hang your arms by your sides,
breathe.

Open your fists,
spread your fingers 
and hold out your palms.

Someone needs a hand,
you have two hands.

You love life,
help life start to grow again.

Rain not thunder helps the flowers grow. 

We are all bright.

Sometimes
the stars watch earth,
they look for patterns of people.
They love when all the people
gather around each other to be
sad and angry and oppressed.

They feel the love pulsing
from galexies away.

Be kind, we are all bright.
 

The world is temporarily closed,
But we're starving...
Sorry for the inconvenience
But my mother is going into labor!
Please come back later!
But what if we can't wait?
Sorry, rules are rules.
But our home has flooded.
Check next door, they might be open.
But we're just been robbed and had a gun against our heads.
We're closing now,
But –
sorry we couldn't have been of assistance,
now go.

Sometimes
when I hurt,
I see flowers and stars.

Flowers are stars of the earth,
bright lights in meadows,
the stars are the flowers of the sky.

And here we are,
strung in-between the two.

When I hurt,
I take as many moments as I need,
to let down my hair and let down my tears
and let down myself.

And when the moments are full,
I tie back my hair, tie back my worries
and look to the sky.

And then to the meadows.

A hush falling from my lips like birds
that get too close to the sun.

You will ask yourself who you are
and yourself will not answer
so you figure you already know.

Sometimes I get headaches,
but headaches are like hurricanes.

After the storm passes,
you lay yourself out in the wreckage
and feel the winds of change
tugging at your hands.

With everything lying broken,

I

The ocean will put salt in your eyes,
and likewise, your eyes give the sea its salt.

And perhaps in case of emergency
you will be the ocean itself.
Look to your corners.
Lap on shores, pull up shells.
Spray on slippery rocks,
pierce the air with many rainbows.

II

Let your tongue return to
the damaged roof of your mouth.

The raw ribs, hollow under your taste buds.
Ink drips from the open cracks,
widening the hole, I warn,
only lets more light in.
I will also confirm your suspicions,
yes, the unknown can still exist
in the known as the unknown.
Light silts though the wounds,
you wonder if your body still feels
beautiful there.

Now drop your tongue,
and watch as it crawls back up the ridge of your jaw
and assesses the chaos the world has created
in it's absence.

III

In the windowed room,

You are not all perfect.
There are parts of you that you don't want to explain,
there are pieces of you that contrast with everything else.

Yet
people will call you beautiful
and you will like it.

But
chaos is beautiful too
and messy is beautiful
and flames are beautiful too.

Impulse lies uneasy in your joints
but feels welcome in the heart.

Water falters at the desert
yet pours from the spout.

You do not have to burn to be shining,
you do not have to throw yourself in the flames
to become beautiful.

A deep heart is twisted around your ribs,
blood cannot paint 
so imagine your ribs to be pearly white.

If your heart became an ocean,
your lungs would freeze to become glass caskets
already prepared for a dying breath.

As if the body was a metaphor for mistakes.

My hair is tangled in fishing hooks,

There is a cake I made on the table,
a glaze of sheep milk and
honey drizzled down the sides.
There are enough chairs to
seat all the insecurities you hold,
but only two chairs will be satisfied today.

Breathe in, the patched sheets on your bed
are becoming stale and attached.
The curtains don't like hanging alone,
the light wants in.

Come on, your windows need to breathe, so do you.
Outside the ocean is breaking upon the rocks,
you still wonder if she gives birth every time.
Whales lie beached, seals crawl
on their deep bellies, turtles come home.

Breathe out, there is hot tea waiting for you,
in a mug made for your hands alone.
Listen, tell all your broken pieces 
that day will still rise even when
the sun is crying.

Come on,
the table is expectant.
You have drank your tea,
the sunshine
is full in your belly.

I do not write poetry for you,
and not all my poetry is about myself.

I do not hold up my tongue to try and
cup the remaining poetry draining from my mouth.

I do not drown in floods
and rise again in the same life.

I do not fold my ugly parts over,
like my mother folds laundry,
but that doesn't mean I don't want to.

I still want to hide the parts of me
that other people don't want to carry
underneath my beautiful parts.
I would say beauty could act as a Band-Aid
but instead it always ends up being the pain.

My poetry is not of the millions,
yet in your every poem...
there I am.

Erase me from your poem,
the whole thing.
But I'll still be imprinted in
shadow upon the page.

A scar you can't cover
with beauty or bodily tissue.

Burn the page,
you'll still find me in every poem you write.

In twenty days five buildings will collapse,
leaving the sea to lick its lips.
In twenty days the floor will, in a final push,
exterminate the space between herself and the ceiling.
In twenty days a small black car will stop in front of your home,
a part of you hears the doorbell
but most of you hears the crying baby instead.
In twenty days the sun will cease pulling at the desert,
but the moon will still grip the oceans.

In twenty days you will let go,
but at the end of the world
there is still you and me.

Watching the fire flick up
from behind closed eyes
and the smoke reach to
the innards of our lungs.
Blindly groping for the land
to take back its flame.

Keep your fire in your belly and your eyes open.
And heat is rising,
and the sky doesn't swallow it,
and mars feels, at last, un-lonely,
because at least it gets to watch us burn