Four hundred and ninety-five full moons
screaming tales of the blood whipped out of my back;
erasing—no, blotting—my yesterdays with unheard shrieks.
Until the Witch took my agony tree and slammed it whole
on Torment’s skull. Even deaf ears felt her crushing wrath.
After sizzling my Witch’s skin with lies,
Torment comes back to haunt me. I never fought for me,
but for my Witch… I ran my tongue over newly sharpened teeth.
“You’ll scream for coin,” I hear him hiss, “for gold, for silver, for me.”
My Witch’s magic was burned. Her skin is not spider-thick,
the flames ate right through, leaving her bare woman and soul sick.
Torment howls curses, whacks our door with man-laws and of God screams, “You’ll tell the tales I tell you to tell. You’ll kiss my man feet, my pockets fill. You’ll be nothing, if I tell you to be. You’ll spin stories with fear, with tears. You’ll plea for the mercy mirage. You’ll be meek and mine, if you want to feed.
Before my Witch, his words would be truth that all could see and poke with a stick. I’m a free spider now, a freer woman. I will tell him stories, “Oh yes! I will.” I will strip the parchment from his bones; carve tales on flesh with my teeth. I’ll tell my tale until his heart bleeds at my feet.
“The Hunger” by SunshineShelle
Magpie Tales 138: Sick Woman, 1665, by Jan Steen