Help me move this last stone into place, and let's lie quiet on the mossy earth, silent enough to hear those hags moon-croon us lullabies of magick.
When I was good, I was a sensitive and sweet-blooded Witch indeed. My ethics were impeccable, and my magick was so diamond white it could blind an angel.
To the lover who left us behind to go wandering, thank you for leaving a black-hole void in our bellies that ached so persistently we had no choice but to fill it with our own molten power poured straight down from the heart-crucible where self-love still bubbled.
The Primal Feminine is not pure, and you know it. Let’s show them it looks like thick-skinned substance and defiant eyes more than pastel wings and glitter.
Squint and look at them close, my love, and you’ll see I’ve written the last to-do list you’ll ever need on these whimsical sculptures.
This is me, in all my bare-breasted and stretch-marked glory. My wine-soaked clothes have been shed, and this is the rawest version of my body I’ve ever known. May my soul’s new shape be forged in the milk-white beams at moonset, and may this birth-by-lunar-fire be a short journey from shame to ...
I crush my eyes closed, refusing to see any more, wondering why I had been born at all if these reflections show even a shred of truth. Surely, I should remain here in this Hall of Mirrors until I die thirsty and heartbroken. Surely, I have broken my soul-contract and will never gift the world ...
You are the medicine woman unleashing a banshee’s cry at the old men marching outside of the abortion clinic. You are the Maiden dancing a body-prayer for clean water, and you will not rest. Your wrath is holy, and you won’t stop howling.
We will not sit back and be idle. We are restless change-agents come to claim the future our souls designed when we lived beyond the veil. This is the reckoning. The Motherland is real, and She is wrathful. We are incensed by the ignorance, and our vows are being emblazoned with ire on the ...