February 2, 2018

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dear Magic, 3.

February 2, 2018


I am shaking you down. It was always in my right to steal, and today I have grown hungry. Impatient.


I saw you growing something rich; like fruit coming too large in a tree, threatening to swell and rot. So I'm here, widening my jaw like a predator. I am tired of wasting color, sitting in this vacant glaze. I accept the consequence. 


I stood above two witches, hands buried in the earth at my feet; I had come to bring them beets, sliced thin and cold. I saw their eyes were lost in you, belabored in their own perceptions. I stuffed my mouth full-red and tore their focus. I wore white, my heart exposed, and the beet blood spilling from my lips to my chest spun them into horrified laughter. Reverence is for those with more distance.


I love you, and

I am sharpening my teeth.





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