Yes, I am a witch but I’m not wicked –
at least I hope not.
I sit in grey winter’s chill,
unseen by the world,
alone in my thoughts,
alone in my life.
My flesh is shrinking
in the dryness of neglect.
I am looking at my hands –
no lady’s these, pampered and bejewelled.
No, they’re rough,
accustomed to the work of living.
The skin is taking on a greenish waxen tinge.
Alarmed, I strip before the mirror
and there it is: witch skin,
all up and down my lanky frame.
And for all its shrivelled dryness
I’m melting – melting!
Unappreciated and unused,
my brain the only bit of me that’s functioning,
the rest is liquefying.
My features blear.
My breasts are drooping with the weight of sorrow.
My loins are dripping to a passionless puddle.
Soon I’ll be sexless,
nothing but harsh hands and stick wood legs
lumbering a useless, juiceless body
© 2013 RC deWinter ~ All Rights Reserved