Any way the wind blows

When I asked, she said she was hanging on by a thread. I offered her the pull from my hoodie and my shoelaces, to add some reinforcements, to hold on. Let’s weave some more wreaths from flowers and fruit and branches. It’s only decoration, but it looks better than it feels. We keep trying to scrub the dark away at three, and it never leaves.

I find that always trying to sleep with a deep itch and restlessness is the same as to trying to eat for a lack of hunger. I don’t know if feeling fully anesthetized is solve-able, or if it should be. Maybe the demand is to sit, stay, stop, hold. Don’t look in, don’t look out, don’t look up. Leave it like a dumbstruck beast in the loudest room where people keep shouting and nobody can hear.

Instead, I’ll stay up half the night casting incantations and spinning spells to ward off the 27th iteration of the same set of questions where the answers never change, and the results are conflicting and inconclusive at best. Can I hope we can let it rest and stop asking, instead of shoveling the sand into castles only to watch the tide wash them flat again?

When asked if I am a good witch or bad, I can’t tell for the truth, but my face rarely lies, so maybe you already know.


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