Witch Hunt

If this was Salem, 1692

I know you'd condemn me to the pyre. With your own self righteous hand

you would light the kindling at my feet,

all in the name of your God.

(I say your God because the one I know does not turn me away simply because I am Pagan and practice-what was it that you called it? Sorcery?)

As the flames licked their way up my skirts,

and my flesh began to boil,

I wonder if you would relish in my screams - would you stay and watch me turn to ash?

Or would you turn up your nose in disgust as the aroma of my charred remains permeated the air?

I often wonder what kind of monster you have turned me into,

while in your gatherings with the other women in your cult.

They must think I have a cauldron, made of the blackest iron,

that I shove all the little kiddies on my block into.

(Yum, yum! Come getcha some!)

Right? Am I getting warmer?

I feel the heat rising from this stake you've tied me to.

Only this time, the one getting burned is you.

You are the one who's suffered a great loss.

I merely was rid of a cancerous mole.

I hope for the sake of your children, that they grow up and rebel.

I hope they find family in friendships, and they escape your hell.

They deserve a mother who will love them,

no matter who they turn out to be.

Instead they were cursed with one who prays for their heteronormality.

One who steals toys away from them in the night,

simply because of who gifted them.

I am the granddaughter of the witches your ancestors couldn't burn.

But I don't deal in curses or hexes.

No, that would be too easy.

The magic I wield is Karma, my dear.

So I very heartily wish upon you,

The Life That You Deserve.

For your children, I wish nothing but peace,

and the strength to one day be able to stand up to your tyranny.

So Mote It Be.