The Witch Doesn't Burn in This One Read online

  the

  women are some kind of magic

  series:

  the princess saves herself in this one (#1)

  the witch doesn’t burn in this one (#2)

  for the girl on fire.

  thank you for inspiring me to

  gently set the world alight.

  you may have

  a gown of flames,

  but those same flames

  run through my

  veins.

  &

  to all the

  princesses,

  to all the

  damsels,

  to all the

  queens.

  you have

  rescued yourselves

  so many

  times now

  & i am

  in awe of

  you.

  trigger warning

  this book

  contains

  sensitive material

  relating to:

  child abuse,

  intimate partner abuse,

  sexual assault,

  eating disorders,

  trauma,

  death,

  murder,

  violence,

  fire,

  menstruation,

  transphobia,

  & more.

  remember

  to practice self-care

  before, during, & after

  reading.

  contents

  I.the trial

  II.the burning

  III.the firestorm

  IV.the ashes

  warning I:

  this is not

  a fairy witch tale.

  there are no

  witches.

  there is no

  witch hunt.

  there are no

  match-boys.

  there are no

  burnings.

  there is no

  fiery revolution.

  this is simply

  a story

  where women

  fight against

  the manmade

  structure

  that has long

  overstayed

  its welcome.

  warning II:

  no mercy

  ahead.

  “write your fears.”

  that’s what they

  told me.

  so i picked that

  pen up again

  & i traced my way

  over these

  openclosedopen

  wounds

  until the inky map

  led me right to

  the very ones who

  started it.

  then i took

  a deep breath

  & conjured up

  a storm

  all my own.

  tell me

  something,

  would you?

  haven’t you

  ever wished

  you could

  dance

  in the ashes

  of everyone who

  ever doubted

  your worth

  & scoffed at

  your words?

  (shhh,

  it’s okay.

  i won’t tell.)

  prophecy I

  i will not survive this winter. the boys

  with fistfuls of matchsticks are

  poundpoundpounding at my

  cottage door. while witches

  may be flammable, the match-boys

  cannot take the heart shape my

  lover’s lips take when she whispers my

  name through the dark. the match-boys

  cannot take the mother-to-daughter

  tales that will slide off the angry

  tongues of my descendants for

  centuries to come. the match-boys

  cannot take the wronged woman’s

  wrath of artemis, goddess of

  hunt(ing the ones who come for women

  like me with hate-filled eyes). i may

  not survive the match-boys, but my

  bitch-fire will survive them all.

  prophecy II

  what happens

  when you

  throw

  your match,

  but the

  pastor-preyed witch

  simply refuses to

  catch?

  what happens

  when you

  throw

  your stone,

  but the

  adultery-accused wife

  simply refuses to

  bleed?

  what happens

  when you

  throw

  your fist (again),

  but your

  truth-talking girlfriend

  simply refuses to

  bruise?

  over the span

  of centuries

  animals evolve to

  survive their surroundings,

  so

  what happens

  when women

  finally

  learn

  to

  throw

  back?

  (this.)

  (this.)

  (this.)

  (this.)

  & so the tale goes . . .

  I. the trial

  the boys who spend all their days finger-fiddling with matchsticks line us up & proceed to stick tiny yellow & black truth-telling flowers between our teeth. one by one, they ask us if we know what crime we’re guilty of. after a brief pause to gather our thoughts, we say, “the only thing we’re guilty of is being women.” this is simultaneously the right & wrong answer. to the match-boys, our

  existence is the darkest form of magic, usually punishable by death.

  they don’t even know what’s coming. how cute.

  we shouldn’t be afraid of them.

  no no no.

  they should be afraid of us.

  - the first lesson in fire.

  we give power

  to anything we

  fancy,

  but we may also

  take it away

  again.

  just.

  like.

  that.

  the choice

  is entirely

  ours

  & they

  just want to

  end us

  before we have

  the chance to

  end them.

  - the best kept secret.

  i’m afraid

  i must confess

  i inherited

  my mother’s rage

  & the

  mother-rage

  that came

  before her

  & all the

  mother-rage

  that raced down

  every branch

  of our tangled up

  family tree.

  - nothing can extinguish me.

  to

  everyone

  who said

  my

  great-grandmother

  ha
d a

  wee bit of witch

  in her:

  she’s

  got nothing

  on me.

  - & i’ve only just begun.

  the ground—

  it ignites

  wherever

  a woman’s

  foot

  comes down

  & if

  you’re not

  careful,

  the

  very same

  thing

  could

  happen

  to you.

  - some destruction is beautiful.

  this is

  an overdue

  love letter

  to each

  & every

  woman

  who walked

  these fields

  before me

  &

  made

  the path

  soft enough

  for me to

  walk through

  to get to

  the side

  they could

  never reach.

  for that,

  i owe you

  so much.

  - but i owe some things to myself, too.

  there exists

  a fine line

  between

  being

  selfish

  &

  being

  selfless

  &

  most days

  i can’t tell

  which side

  it is that

  i’m on.

  &

  most days?

  i don’t

  care.

  - there are some things i just have to do for me.

  why yes,

  i am

  the girl

  with the

  arsonist heart

  all your fathers

  warned you

  about

  &

  once

  one tree

  catches,

  it’s not long

  before

  the whole

  forest

  lights up.

  - yet i never seem to care who gets hurt.

  gods, i hope i terrify you.

  keep

  an eye out

  for

  all those

  quietly

  reckless,

  knotty-haired

  girls.

  you know

  you can’t

  hold back

  a wildfire,

  don’t you?

  - trouble trouble.

  women:

  we can

  spin

  g o l d

  out of

  d i r t.

  - bewitching.

  women:

  we can

  magic

  f i r e

  out of

  a i r.

  - bewitching II.

  sometimes

  women bleed;

  sometimes

  we do not.

  we

  cannot be

  so easily

  divided up

  into boxes

  wrapped in

  pre-packaged

  pink lace & ribbons.

  - every woman is authentic.

  women are

  considered to be

  possessions

  before we are ever

  considered to be

  human beings,

  & if our doors

  & our windows

  are ever smashed in

  by wicked men,

  then we are deemed

  worthless—

  foreclosed.

  never sold.

  so we move out of

  our neighborhoods

  & we make sister-homes

  out of each other.

  - we lock those doors & eat those keys.

  women

  learn

  to sense

  what who

  danger

  looks like

  just

  by catching

  another

  woman’s eye

  from across

  a crowded

  room.

  - survival.

  women

  pass down

  how-to guides

  on the ways

  to tell if

  our drinks

  are spiked

  & offer

  to guard

  the flimsy doors

  of bathroom stalls

  for

  each other.

  - survival II.

  the

  only time

  i know

  what

  being safe

  feels like

  is

  when

  i’m in

  a room

  overflowing

  with light

  & the laughter

  of women

  that fills

  the space

  floor-to-ceiling

  with lavender

  &

  a door

  with a lock

  no man

  can

  ever break.

  - safety has never been our privilege.

  we know how to

  keep the girls safe

  from the

  sharp talons of

  old, sleepy,

  bedroom-eyed dragons,

  & when we aren’t

  quick enough to act,

  we know just what

  we have to do:

  walk through

  the roaring blaze

  & swim across

  miles of moats

  & climb the

  glittering tower

  & make the beasts

  beg us for our mercy.

  - predators.

  we

  finally refused

  to be seen as only

  bodies crafted

  for the men’s

  use&consumption,

  so we set the

  clouds ablaze

  to sway them,

  to show them

  how wonderfully

  we could coexist,

  but

  they chose to

  take it as a threat

  & they

  have never

  fully forgiven us

  for claiming

  the portion of the sky

  that was always rightfully ours.

  - when the glass sky is the limit.

  when our abilities

  became too much,

  they tried to

  shut us away

  in the dark

  without even

  a candle

  to guide us out.

  little

  did they know,

  our

  woman-rage-fire

  would light

  our path home

  just fine.

  - you are your own lighthouse.

  the man with the witch-killing look in his eyes drinks deeply from the chipped lilac teacup, his trembling hands making it clink against the saucer as he places them back together. my stomach churns in circles as the dark liquid dribbles down
his chin in lines. he eagerly slides the cup & dish to me across the old, rickety table & i waste no time turning the cup over onto the dish to get rid of the excess. when i turn the cup right-side up, i spot the clusters of soggy brown & black leaves that litter the bottom in various shapes & sizes. i study it for a moment & immediately look away, nervously wringing my hands in my skirts. there’s no question what that means.

  “well? what does it say?” he asks.

  i keep my eyes down. “the leaves say you’re going to . . . pay.”

  “p-pardon?” he sputters, his eyes filling to the brim with terror.

  “they say . . . you’re all going to pay,” i whisper.

  - the leaves never lie.

  to be a

  woman

  is to be

  warbound,

  k n o w i n g

  all the odds

  are stacked

  against you.

  - & never giving up in spite of it.

  red lipstick:

  an external sign

  of internal

  fire.

  - we tried to warn you.

  red lipstick:

  battle cry.

  battle cry.

  battle cry.

  - we tried to warn you II.

  they scratched it

  out of the history books,

  but on all the

  great innovations

  you will find

  scorch marks

  in the shape of

  a woman’s

  magnificent

  handprint.

  do not forget:

  we need to be

  the history books

  now.

  - women are libraries about to burst.

  women

  don’t endure

  simply because

  we can;

  no,

  women endure

  because we aren’t

  given any other

  choice.

  - they wanted us weak but forced us to be strong.

  they would

  watch us burn

  before

  letting us think

  we can be

  our own people,

  before

  letting us think

  we’re capable

  of anything

  more

  than they are.

  - the sad, sad truth.

  they

  will try

  to steal

  your light

  & use it as

  a weapon

  against

  you.

  but there’s

  a piece

  of good

  news:

  they

  don’t have

  the patience to

  control it

  like you do.