“we are the granddaughters of the witches you couldn’t burn”
it’s a phrase that tastes at first like sweet revenge,
tastes like the fire that
killed our fore-witches
re-igniting and blowing
back to burn down the systems
that lit the first match.

but my tongue feels singed
and my gut is boiling.
I am no one’s granddaughter.

my being is not daughter,
is not woman, is not girl.

see, my gender is the hex I placed on your bathrooms
may the toilet water overflow
with the blood of my ancestors you’ve killed
in body and memory.

my gender is the Hanged Man
suspended mid-air upside down
surrendered to the knowing of death
the challenge of transition
a willing sacrifice of an ego
that tied them up for dead.

my gender is my 12th house sagittarius stellium
that struggles to grip its own name,
recoils away from the light,
but charged with enough fire to turn
the course of the blaze back outward,
enough power to scream back:

I am the grandchild
of the witches you could not burn.
I am the grandchild
of the witches you could not sacrifice for safety.
I am the grandchild
of the witches you could not ignore out of fear.

 

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