Witch Wings

Im re-growing my
witch wings
because even hell and her angels
deserved a break
every once in awhile
to block out the hate
and the voices
in my thin skull
that told me I wasn’t worthy,
sweeping those
dust demons out
along with the ashes
of the fires that burned in Salem
with my broken bruised broom,
soon to be mended
by my own fucking magic
thank you very much
so I could take flight
anytime I was
found wanting
to get the fuck out of here,
as far away as I could
from under this sleazy mess.

But all I could hear on repeat
were my brother’s
last ghosts breaths
before he died,
skipping sick phonograph,
over and over
in my freak show head,
for the last two horror years
which drove me
off cliffs and
wild mad.

And when I looked
in the nightmare mirrors
of bathrooms
across America,
I didn’t recognize myself,
my eyes
consumed by house fires
and shitty poetry lines
scrawled on
napkins in diners
in Minnesota,
sloppy words on coasters in coffee shops
in Tennessee,
slurring notes in ice cream parlors
in Arizona
under the bluest skies
Id ever seen,
scribbling nasty nonsense
on paper towels
in the bars
of New Orleans,
hoping to turn
prophesies into realities.

And I sang
choruses of dirges,
and harmonized
with funerals in
the catwalks of churches
with candles below glowing fiercely
in every last one of the stained windows.

I was exhausted
with pulling off masks,
to then eat those same damn toxins again,
I never seemed to fucking learn
and digest in disgust
the poison that  
sticks to the
sides of my
stormy stomach lining,
causing that kind of
hunched over thunder
in the belly
with a grimace and groan,
and I was left with just lungs and
phantom blood
which scream out
just to prove
their very existence,
but no one,
not even me,
can hear their cries
in the night.

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