Moon Howling and Honeywine

Prose Poem

I am the witch that drinks potions of honey and wine and cooks with newt eyes and dragon’s tails. I spend all day hexing my exes (there are several of them you see) and I spend all night howling at the moon. Sometimes naked, but I hate the cold, it hardens my nipples, so I put on my dressing gown. I’m alone in my room, but I’m okay being alone. Aren’t I? Of course, I’m the witch, the woman with the freedom of an empty room. I’m okay being alone, trust me. I commune with Hekate; she says hi, or would that be χαῖρε. Though you would never hear her, she only speaks to me and sometimes Ophelia. My bedroom floor is covered with idols of dead goddesses, crosses lying upside down, journals with half-filled pages and paw prints, fountain pens with no ink and crystals, polished, sparkling and cracked.

Bubbling tea pours into a ceramic mug shaped like a black cauldron; I spill a little on the carpet, but I don’t care. It’s just me here. I tiptoe towards the altar, my desk, to write my spells while I sip my honey-soaked brew. I placed a standing mirror next to my bed, so I could wake up seeing myself. I would wave, say hello, and clink the panel with the person behind the mirror. Chin chin. My cup always half full, or is it empty? The faeires like a sip or two, like I don’t notice the difference, but I do. Nodons wants to speak with me, to lick my wounds but I won’t let him. He’s old and hairy and smells like wet dogs. He’s like that annoying relative, you know the one, who likes to tell you how your life is going to be just fine, that everyone has bad days and dreams don’t always come true. My dreams always involve the fae and the moon, I’m running with them. Through an endless meadow, bare-foot and mud flying. Anyway, I don’t need healing or anyone for that matter. I am a witch after all. I can heal myself with a charm here and there and that bottle of honey wine I’ll save for moon howling.

Alone, like the witch I’m not supposed to be.