The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One

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The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One Page 2

by Amanda Lovelace


  “you have no reason

  to be afraid,”

  the match-boys

  tell us right before

  they throw

  fistfuls

  & fistfuls

  of matches.

  “don’t be so

  fucking dramatic,”

  the match-boys

  tell us as our skin

  drips into the dirt.

  “you’re always

  overreacting,”

  the match-boys

  tell the reflections

  in the puddles they made.

  - they only wish this is how it happened.

  always put yourself first.

  sacrifice at your own

  discretion.

  - coven rule #1.

  II. the burning

  “the only thing we’re guilty of is being women,”

  we tell them,

  & that’s all they hear.

  that’s all they need to hear before they rush in on us. that’s all they need to hear before they

  gather us together like cattle, adults & children alike. that’s all they need to hear before they

  reveal the ropes they kept hidden behind their backs. that’s all they need to hear before they tie us around the same old oak tree, forcing us to hold hands with each other for comfort. (“ring around—r-r-ring around—ring around…”)

  that’s all they need to hear before they pick up their feet & drag the matches across the bottoms of their boots.

  - the second lesson in fire.

  to

  the men,

  women are

  born as

  delicate

  rosebuds.

  even

  the way

  they

  crush us

  beneath their

  angry steps

  leaves them

  breathless.

  - wilted before the bloom.

  they

  tell us

  over & over

  & over

  again

  that women

  need

  to stay

  small/

  thin/

  skinny/

  petite.

  that way,

  we are

  effortlessly

  pocketed

  to be used

  & thrown out

  at a later

  time.

  curves

  & fat

  & rolls

  are a

  colossal

  “fuck you”

  to the

  patriarchy—

  our accidental

  rebellion.

  - my body rejects your desires.

  she’s

  so scared

  to

  takeupspace

  that even

  the weight

  of her

  bones

  sometimes

  feels like

  too much.

  - the hollow-girl.

  &

  she

  begins to

  wonder

  if kisses

  have

  calories

  & how

  long they

  would take

  to burn.

  - the hollow-girl II.

  I. water.

  II. coffee&tea.

  III. zero-calorie sweetener.

  IV. one-hundred-calorie snacks.

  V. a body so weightless no one else can own it.

  - a hollow-girl’s grocery list.

  to

  describe myself

  as

  fat

  is not

  to

  describe myself

  as

  ugly, lazy, worthless,

  or undesirable.

  - it’s my self-acceptance movement.

  in our bellies:

  fire fire fire

  & sometimes

  not much

  else.

  - these are the real hunger games.

  in our hands:

  embers embers embers

  just waiting for

  the opportunity

  to ignite.

  - catching fire is so, so easy.

  the

  men

  make us

  dance

  for

  them

  until our

  toes are

  bloody

  &

  then

  they just

  tell us to

  change out

  our pink

  slippers

  for

  r

  e

  d.

  - their darling dancing dolls.

  when his girlfriend

  exits stage left

  all the vicious villagers

  gather ’round & ’round,

  the hushhushhushing

  of the dead man sea

  as he takes his long-awaited leave

  from the shadows

  & reaches a hand out

  for my blackwater hair,

  rope-twisting it around

  his unforgiving fist,

  my neck bending back

  as a white lily stem does

  just before the

  breath-taking & breaking.

  he leans down

  to kiss me with his

  beautiful, blood-rusted

  chainsaw mouth,

  & the next morning,

  all the ladies of the village

  have their favorite shade of

  blood splatter lip stain

  named after me.

  - abuse is nothing to romanticize.

  telling me

  not all men

  have

  bad intentions

  doesn’t do

  anything to

  reassure

  me.

  after i

  walk away from you,

  nothing will have

  changed.

  i will still

  be scared to

  leave my house

  after sundown,

  i will still

  find comfort

  in keys resting

  between fingers,

  i will still

  question

  the intentions of

  every man i know,

  i will still

  wonder

  when i am

  to become

  a story

  meant to warn

  other people’s

  daughters,

  & i will still

  cry when i turn on

  the television

  to find

  yet

  another man

  getting away

  with

  well—

  what they

  always seem to

  get away with.

  i am not

  the one who

  has to change

  the way i think

  or the way i act.

  they are.

  - expectations vs. reality.

  i hold

  my tongue

  out of fear

  so often

  that

  blood

  has />
  made

  a permanent

  home

  in

  the spaces

  between

  my

  teeth.

  - this is what womanhood tastes like.

  we’re

  forced to

  tread over

  the still-flickering

  matches

  they used

  to eliminate our

  ancestors

  &

  we

  still

  w h i s p e r

  the expected

  apologies

  when

  our toes

  get singed.

  - a born regret.

  a girl’s first words:

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  a girl’s last words:

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  “i’m sorry.”

  they try to

  convince us

  that our rapists

  will only ever be

  strangers

  lurking in bushes

  in the dark,

  dark night,

  that we

  should keep

  floral pepper spray

  & pocketknives

  tucked

  neatly into

  our purses

  at all times

  (because

  apparently

  even the act

  of trying not

  to be raped

  should look

  lovely

  & feminine),

  so

  that when

  our rapists

  end up being

  our grandfathers/fathers/

  brothers/uncles/cousins/

  best friends/boyfriends/

  husbands,

  we have no words

  to describe it

  & no one willing to

  help light our torches.

  - everything is a distraction.

  what rape culture does:

  fills me with

  fleeting relief

  when i find out that

  i escaped

  my ex-boyfriend

  before he became

  a rapist

  & not after.

  - this poison has seeped into everything.

  we spend lifetimes

  combing our way

  through scarce

  clover fields,

  hoping, praying,

  finger, eye,

  toe, & leg

  crossing

  that we’re not

  the 1 out of 6

  who come up

  empty-handed,

  &

  we are never

  able to forgive

  ourselves for being

  the ones to pluck

  that green amethyst hope

  right before her fingers

  s w e e p the thin air.

  - safety & luck hold hands with each other.

  i

  can’t seem

  to recall

  agreeing

  to be a

  casualty

  of these

  manmade

  disasters.

  - cyclone.

  no one should

  have to carry

  the unbearably

  heavy weight of

  a m a t t r e s s

  on their back

  for a lifetime.

  - for emma sulkowicz.

  i’m having the nightmare again. the one where the crooked wood comes to life & the tree-man with the sharp, gnarled branches uproots himself from the soil & comes stumbling out after me. i would recognize his face anywhere. it’s the face they sketched by the flow of my shaky 11-year-old words. after all these years, he finally gets to be rootless because wicked men are rarely punished for very long. his bark is dry & peeling & his exposed fruit rots from the inside out & i cannot peddle my little yellow bike away fast enough. the wheels get caught in the thick spring mud & suddenly i’m sinking & he reeks of revenge & i know nothing is stopping him this time because wicked men do not stop until they punish anyone who tries to tell them that the world isn’t theirs for the taking while the wind whispers to them: “take her, take her, take her.”

  - what women dream about.

  the men,

  they’re

  d r a g g i n g

  me into

  the shadow forest

  where not even

  the wolves

  dare go.

  they use

  my body

  like men

  use women’s

  bodies

  & when they’re

  finally done

  with me

  they cut off

  my tongue

  my breasts

  my hands

  my feet

  & leave

  no thread

  behind

  for me to

  stitch

  myself

  back

  together.

  - what women dream about II.

  I.don’t rape.

  II.don’t rape.

  III.don’t rape.

  IV.don’t rape.

  V.don’t rape.

  VI.don’t rape.

  VII.don’t rape.

  VIII.don’t rape.

  IX.don’t rape.

  X.don’t rape.

  XI.don’t rape.

  XII.don’t rape.

  XIII.don’t rape.

  XIV.don’t rape.

  XV.don’t rape.

  - how to prevent sexually assaulting someone.

  but

  what if

  the devil

  is just

  a woman

  who was

  banished

  to hell

  to stoke

  the

  flames

  as

  punishment

  for

  standing up

  to

  him?

  - lilith.

  he

  told her

  not to

  play

  with his

  poor

  little

  heart

  so she

  spared it

  by walking

  a w a y

  &

  that’s

  when he

  stole

  all her

  smiles

  & threw them

  into the

  dark&icy

  december

  waters.

  - rip to the women who lost these games.

 
some

  fathers

  will

  c r a c k

  their

  daughter’s

  teeth

  with skinned

  knuckles

  &

  when

  her lover’s

  fist

  comes

  for her

  she will

  offer him

  an open-lipped

  smile.

  “it’s just like home,”

  she’ll say.

  - she didn’t even have to tap her feet together.

  our

  very being

  is considered

  an inconvenience,

  our bodies

  vacant homes

  wrapped in layers

  of yellow tape,

  our legs

  double doors

  for one man

  (& one man only)

  to pry open so

  he can invade us

  & set down his

  furniture,

  never once

  asking us

  how we feel

  about the curtains.

  - they love us empty, empty, empty.

  sometimes your demons

  will be men

  who show dimples

  when they say “thank you”

  & open doors for every

  approaching stranger

  & send you

  good morning/good night texts

  & remember

  your mother’s maiden name

  & surprise you with good coffee

  on all your bad days

  & with the same voice

  he uses to tell you

  he loves you,

  he will tell you

  how he dreamed

  of killing you

  a dozen different ways

  last night

  & woke up

  aching.

  - what men dream about.

  &

  the men

  will always sit

  (too) close

  to you

  &

  claim they

  just want to

  be warmed

  by your

  flames

  &

  they will

  smile as

  they bottle

  up your

  sparks

  &

  later they’ll

  tell everyone

  they know how to

  build such a great

  & terrible fire

  all by

  themselves.

  - women are always born on an eclipse.

  they

  think they

  can write

  our stories

  because

  their mothers

  let them

  fingertip-trace

  their palms

  but

 

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