Witch TrialMature

I feel a fleshless mess
as my thighs are slit, spit into,
toasted sweetly
as marshmallows, and the air
is full of that burnt caramel stench
necessary to resurrect
the ghosts of Halloweens past.
In my holy garb,
all slut-clothed (or something),
I am laid
on the altar to some candied goddess,
icing sugared and headless.
Face down, all chthonic,
I suck and splutter,
bobbing like witches,
seeking sin a second time
like toffee apples
guillotined to the ground, hollow and
rotten as my snow white heart.
The buoyancy of
my scarecrow empty head
fails me, and I think about self-annihilation
and the blessedness of drowning.
I am hopeless; I resurface,
head streaming, eyes reeling,
skin peeling from the apple
gagging me like some prize sow,
holy cow, what a fucking bitch.
I hear sirens.
I spent so long
tying myself to stakes
with red ribbons, laces from my school shoes,
and yet the matches are tucked away
still in the knife drawer, sighing,
“Always be prepared”
(at least for your
inevitable demise, Girl Scout’s honour,
memento mori
and all of the above).
“Trick or treat”
is one and the same to me;
the guilt of stealing from old ladies
is dense and heavy
as candyfloss
after carrying this cadaver
with me every day,
to show it off, vacuous and soaked
in ostentation. I am impatient
to burn it, ditch it in a river
with the ducks and the ducking.
Bonfire night is less than a week away.
Nobody will notice
my swan dive, I am certain,
I murmur as the rigor mortis of
caramel binds and silences me,
cackling hag that I am.
Bury me under a pumpkin patch;
drag out my insides, vomit thick and garish.
Carve me a smile, light a candle
in the heart of me.
In the space of a week, I’ll be caved in,
reeking, mould spilt and leaking
onto the pavement
all my guts and plant life.
Sedate me.
Cremate me,
I am nettles and thorns.

The End

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