If being a witch means that I can look into the eyes behind your eyes, and alchemize your tears and cries into the love your heart beats for: If I can take that beat, a red drum, and steady its rhythm through a night, until a dawn, holding some flame of remembrance deep into your shadow lands... my shadow lands...emerging, in dignity, through the displays of war-torn memories and psyche, into the light-filled day

Then yes, I am a witch.

If being a witch means that I can hold you in the hearth of your own bloodline, my own bloodline, and sing down that line some ancient whispers... of sweet grandmothers, dear grandfathers...bring your voices into this now... weep for you too long, forgotten ghosts of dead lands... and bring you here, into this pulsing body, wide-eyed and blinking

Then yes, I am a witch. 

If being a witch means that I can stand in the pyres of your fears...of your hatred... of a collective, twisted, ignorance... and forgive you....this great imbalance...this great misunderstanding. If I can cherish your innocence and rock you into peace... humming...lulling...your life into being... even as I reach down and pull you, again, from the raw chasms of my body... birthed fat and plump once more. If I can sit with your death, your poison, your god, your child...equally ...and name them one by one...and be the mirror in you,

Then yes, I am a witch. 

If being a bitch means that I will stand burning in relentless fires of relentless fury, a fire to cleanse all lies.. a staff firm in the ground...obstinate and wrathful... in an unswaying refusal to compromise this wild soul,

Then yes, I am a bitch. 

If being a whore means that I will love and love and love again, a love which has no target, no agendas... a love which claims no trophies... and bleed and cry you through the waters of this eternal womb residing in me... in you...forever replenished, no matter how battered or torn...

If I can keep my heart opening, even as the pain would have it contract and birth this new beginning, again, to my breast,

Then yes, I am a whore.  

Beware, my sisters and brothers, the trap of colluding with fear of the wild.

Beware, my brothers and sisters, the hell of editing your own soul.

If being a witch means that I dance the rich music of emotion and body as I swim in the dreams of our ancestors. If I can see the children laughing, peering deep in the wound as it dissolves. If I can hold the lie as it spasms and contorts and writhes... without flinching... and lay it to rest like a sleeping babe, soft and meek and fragile I am, and stand before life naked, neither proud nor ashamed, to love and love and love again,

Then yes, I am a witch. 

And I invite you to join me, dear soul.... 


Text © Lauren Wilce - All Rights Reserved.