Wick’d

She's wick’d.

She bent, twisted and broke every single thing I leaned on for support, for comfort, for safety.

She flipped off the old teachers and called them mad, then called up the “crazy ones” and installed them onto thrones of slowly-dissolving moons.

She's wick’d.

She cloaked my eyes in night.

She lit a candle and named it the sun, then looked into the flame and summoned snow.

She's wick’d.

She pulled my body to her and called it a cradle, scooping out an empty space in my belly to rest her heavy head.

She whispered in my ear that in the end was my beginning and that oceans live in a looking glass.

She's wick’d.

She called for the ravens and spoke to them as wolves. 

My heart thudded when they answered her in a language I'd never heard, yet understood.

She said my dirt was birth and my secret air a sanctuary for green things, changelings, threshold spirits.

It was all turned around, you see.

And she expected me to thank her for her storm. 

Wick’d, I tell you...

I've yet to learn her name.

But I see her face, peering out at me from behind my own white skull.

She's wick'ed: a living candle strung with soul~ mine; holding court with fire, eating up the air, melting structures and reshaping all that dared to define the me I was.

I will burn with her, this wild witch.

We'll remember together that crimson is the first creation color, the river surrender, the new-old black.

She is the alchemist ~

un-re-make-membering me. 

Into something stronger, bolder.

Something fierce.

Something medicinal.

Something mighty, made of new moon matter and glowing ember.

She's bringing me to the root.

It takes a lot of fire to get that low.