Don’t Fear the Witch
I do not fear a witch will come knocking at my door. With a poison apple treat. For I am the witch. With evil eye charm. Hidden on my porch. Shun that house in old Reno. Called the House of the Rising Sun. As the old song goes. For I am shunned. Alone. Both by choice and circumstance.
Everyone in Nevada is carrying a gun. So I hear. I cannot mix with the populace. I am sorry. This world? This gun-happy silver state? Is not safe for me. I don’t want to die. Not yet. To know my phases of misery, psychosis and manic joy? One would to seek to end the cycle. I fear. As a public service. To the taxpayer. For I cannot keep it light. Think positive. At the slightest provocation; the biggest little panic attack.
I practice witchcraft. Alone. In a room in my house. Inside sacred geometry lines. Of rose quartz. Broken jewelry. Tarot cards. Is magic real? Will. Salt. Stones. Baby tooth of my childhood mouth. Nail clippings. Candles carved with runes. Menstrual blood of my barren womb. Sometimes spells work. Or don’t. I have only been six years at the craft. I know not how many more years. It will take. To master the impossible.
Morbid play, or is it the way? I prevaricate. Between doubt and devout. I know naught.
Writing. Art. Witchcraft. Exercises in futility. Against the inevitable. Death.
The only poison apple is in my heart. I barricade it. To wait. For the one I once loved and lost.
Andrea Lambert is a queer writer, artist and filmmaker with Schizoaffective Disorder. She lives in Nevada with her four cats. Site: andreaklambert.com
Fevers of the Mind 