sweet (know)nothings

With so much to say,
we are silent,
mouths full of blood.
And it is hard
to know that we have never
known a thing.

Again,
we are classed
as witches —
nothing so easy,
and so easily
(mis)taken.

And we do not care
to interpret her guile —
toss it in the cauldron
with her Prince Charming painting.
Maybe his reach
can scratch her itch,
or teach her
those early lessons
in rebellion.

And a bottle of betrayal
makes such sweet poison.

We have these habits
of letting go —
an abhorrence of artifice —
an acceptance of alone.
And we reject
anything that bears
a resemblance
to ropes or rings.

Only these birds
keep us from the wild wind.
And though our own bodies
may be tethered,
there is nothing
to withhold or diminish
these flights of fancy.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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