An Open Letter To Witch Hunters

To those who want witchery dead,

Tread carefully,

You could find me in your bed.

When you're drunk on cheap tequila potions,

And I'm lonelier than sin,

I'll play up the magic

And sell to you my devotion.


A sample of my spells at work:

1. On your arm

"Gosh, I've never met anyone as interesting to talk to as you."

(You've spent an hour on your fraternity; God knows you're no Letterman)

2. In your bed

"Uh huh, I came hard too."

(Certainly not with you involved, I didn't)

3. In your ear

"Wow, you have really sculpted arms, can I feel?"

(They're exceedingly average; it is as if I'm fondling soft kiwis)


Before you burn anyone at the stake,

Please just fucking listen to my take.

See, a good time never hurt anybody,

And we were nothing more to each other than that,

just... bodies.


There was no contract, no bound magic, no deed,

Certainly not anything implying that you owned me.

Honey, spells break and potions wear-

Facts fairytales otherwise swear.


You're angry and pointing pitchforks,

Taunting flames already lick at my feet.

They say I knew what I was doing

Because of who

I was doing.

My sex was my mistake.


Jesus, I may be magic,

But potions only last a night, you know.

I'm ashamed too, you know.

Even witches get plastered, you know.


"Witch" becomes "Bitch"

(according to your friends)

Until they're one in the same.

Were they

Already the same?

Does it matter now?

Are you happy now?


I am the foolish witch who turned frog into man.

I am the foolish bitch who turned frog into man,

For I didn't understand that

What comes from the mud

Must at morning be carefully returned again.

This poem is about: 
My community


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