the
women are some kind of magic
series:
the princess saves herself in this one (#1)
the witch doesn’t burn in this one (#2)
for the girl on fire.
thank you for inspiring me to
gently set the world alight.
you may have
a gown of flames,
but those same flames
run through my
veins.
&
to all the
princesses,
to all the
damsels,
to all the
queens.
you have
rescued yourselves
so many
times now
& i am
in awe of
you.
trigger warning
this book
contains
sensitive material
relating to:
child abuse,
intimate partner abuse,
sexual assault,
eating disorders,
trauma,
death,
murder,
violence,
fire,
menstruation,
transphobia,
& more.
remember
to practice self-care
before, during, & after
reading.
contents
I.the trial
II.the burning
III.the firestorm
IV.the ashes
warning I:
this is not
a fairy witch tale.
there are no
witches.
there is no
witch hunt.
there are no
match-boys.
there are no
burnings.
there is no
fiery revolution.
this is simply
a story
where women
fight against
the manmade
structure
that has long
overstayed
its welcome.
warning II:
no mercy
ahead.
“write your fears.”
that’s what they
told me.
so i picked that
pen up again
& i traced my way
over these
openclosedopen
wounds
until the inky map
led me right to
the very ones who
started it.
then i took
a deep breath
& conjured up
a storm
all my own.
tell me
something,
would you?
haven’t you
ever wished
you could
dance
in the ashes
of everyone who
ever doubted
your worth
& scoffed at
your words?
(shhh,
it’s okay.
i won’t tell.)
prophecy I
i will not survive this winter. the boys
with fistfuls of matchsticks are
poundpoundpounding at my
cottage door. while witches
may be flammable, the match-boys
cannot take the heart shape my
lover’s lips take when she whispers my
name through the dark. the match-boys
cannot take the mother-to-daughter
tales that will slide off the angry
tongues of my descendants for
centuries to come. the match-boys
cannot take the wronged woman’s
wrath of artemis, goddess of
hunt(ing the ones who come for women
like me with hate-filled eyes). i may
not survive the match-boys, but my
bitch-fire will survive them all.
prophecy II
what happens
when you
throw
your match,
but the
pastor-preyed witch
simply refuses to
catch?
what happens
when you
throw
your stone,
but the
adultery-accused wife
simply refuses to
bleed?
what happens
when you
throw
your fist (again),
but your
truth-talking girlfriend
simply refuses to
bruise?
over the span
of centuries
animals evolve to
survive their surroundings,
so
what happens
when women
finally
learn
to
throw
back?
(this.)
(this.)
(this.)
(this.)
& so the tale goes . . .
I. the trial
the boys who spend all their days finger-fiddling with matchsticks line us up & proceed to stick tiny yellow & black truth-telling flowers between our teeth. one by one, they ask us if we know what crime we’re guilty of. after a brief pause to gather our thoughts, we say, “the only thing we’re guilty of is being women.” this is simultaneously the right & wrong answer. to the match-boys, our
existence is the darkest form of magic, usually punishable by death.
they don’t even know what’s coming. how cute.
we shouldn’t be afraid of them.
no no no.
they should be afraid of us.
- the first lesson in fire.
we give power
to anything we
fancy,
but we may also
take it away
again.
just.
like.
that.
the choice
is entirely
ours
& they
just want to
end us
before we have
the chance to
end them.
- the best kept secret.
i’m afraid
i must confess
i inherited
my mother’s rage
& the
mother-rage
that came
before her
& all the
mother-rage
that raced down
every branch
of our tangled up
family tree.
- nothing can extinguish me.
to
everyone
who said
my
great-grandmother
ha
d a
wee bit of witch
in her:
she’s
got nothing
on me.
- & i’ve only just begun.
the ground—
it ignites
wherever
a woman’s
foot
comes down
& if
you’re not
careful,
the
very same
thing
could
happen
to you.
- some destruction is beautiful.
this is
an overdue
love letter
to each
& every
woman
who walked
these fields
before me
&
made
the path
soft enough
for me to
walk through
to get to
the side
they could
never reach.
for that,
i owe you
so much.
- but i owe some things to myself, too.
there exists
a fine line
between
being
selfish
&
being
selfless
&
most days
i can’t tell
which side
it is that
i’m on.
&
most days?
i don’t
care.
- there are some things i just have to do for me.
why yes,
i am
the girl
with the
arsonist heart
all your fathers
warned you
about
&
once
one tree
catches,
it’s not long
before
the whole
forest
lights up.
- yet i never seem to care who gets hurt.
gods, i hope i terrify you.
keep
an eye out
for
all those
quietly
reckless,
knotty-haired
girls.
you know
you can’t
hold back
a wildfire,
don’t you?
- trouble trouble.
women:
we can
spin
g o l d
out of
d i r t.
- bewitching.
women:
we can
magic
f i r e
out of
a i r.
- bewitching II.
sometimes
women bleed;
sometimes
we do not.
we
cannot be
so easily
divided up
into boxes
wrapped in
pre-packaged
pink lace & ribbons.
- every woman is authentic.
women are
considered to be
possessions
before we are ever
considered to be
human beings,
& if our doors
& our windows
are ever smashed in
by wicked men,
then we are deemed
worthless—
foreclosed.
never sold.
so we move out of
our neighborhoods
& we make sister-homes
out of each other.
- we lock those doors & eat those keys.
women
learn
to sense
what who
danger
looks like
just
by catching
another
woman’s eye
from across
a crowded
room.
- survival.
women
pass down
how-to guides
on the ways
to tell if
our drinks
are spiked
& offer
to guard
the flimsy doors
of bathroom stalls
for
each other.
- survival II.
the
only time
i know
what
being safe
feels like
is
when
i’m in
a room
overflowing
with light
& the laughter
of women
that fills
the space
floor-to-ceiling
with lavender
&
a door
with a lock
no man
can
ever break.
- safety has never been our privilege.
we know how to
keep the girls safe
from the
sharp talons of
old, sleepy,
bedroom-eyed dragons,
& when we aren’t
quick enough to act,
we know just what
we have to do:
walk through
the roaring blaze
& swim across
miles of moats
& climb the
glittering tower
& make the beasts
beg us for our mercy.
- predators.
we
finally refused
to be seen as only
bodies crafted
for the men’s
use&consumption,
so we set the
clouds ablaze
to sway them,
to show them
how wonderfully
we could coexist,
but
they chose to
take it as a threat
& they
have never
fully forgiven us
for claiming
the portion of the sky
that was always rightfully ours.
- when the glass sky is the limit.
when our abilities
became too much,
they tried to
shut us away
in the dark
without even
a candle
to guide us out.
little
did they know,
our
woman-rage-fire
would light
our path home
just fine.
- you are your own lighthouse.
the man with the witch-killing look in his eyes drinks deeply from the chipped lilac teacup, his trembling hands making it clink against the saucer as he places them back together. my stomach churns in circles as the dark liquid dribbles down
his chin in lines. he eagerly slides the cup & dish to me across the old, rickety table & i waste no time turning the cup over onto the dish to get rid of the excess. when i turn the cup right-side up, i spot the clusters of soggy brown & black leaves that litter the bottom in various shapes & sizes. i study it for a moment & immediately look away, nervously wringing my hands in my skirts. there’s no question what that means.
“well? what does it say?” he asks.
i keep my eyes down. “the leaves say you’re going to . . . pay.”
“p-pardon?” he sputters, his eyes filling to the brim with terror.
“they say . . . you’re all going to pay,” i whisper.
- the leaves never lie.
to be a
woman
is to be
warbound,
k n o w i n g
all the odds
are stacked
against you.
- & never giving up in spite of it.
red lipstick:
an external sign
of internal
fire.
- we tried to warn you.
red lipstick:
battle cry.
battle cry.
battle cry.
- we tried to warn you II.
they scratched it
out of the history books,
but on all the
great innovations
you will find
scorch marks
in the shape of
a woman’s
magnificent
handprint.
do not forget:
we need to be
the history books
now.
- women are libraries about to burst.
women
don’t endure
simply because
we can;
no,
women endure
because we aren’t
given any other
choice.
- they wanted us weak but forced us to be strong.
they would
watch us burn
before
letting us think
we can be
our own people,
before
letting us think
we’re capable
of anything
more
than they are.
- the sad, sad truth.
they
will try
to steal
your light
& use it as
a weapon
against
you.
but there’s
a piece
of good
news:
they
don’t have
the patience to
control it
like you do.
The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One Page 1