there are witches among us
created — not born
Dearest,
Gay Christmas, or bitches Ch
One of me sways to music, stays smiling
Reaches my arms up to fractured ceilings
I am instantly hit by an unforgiving wave of humidity and booming trap music.
I am no stranger to opinion.
In the fifth grade, as leaves cascaded down into a shriveled crisp and as the autumnal air descended upon us, I begged my mother to be Little Red R
