The reason we hate witches
is because they know
we belong to a dirty decrepit family
we want no part of.
They welcome us into the coven
of the damned
when we want to be the lucky escapees.
They don’t even have the decency
to be outcasts
in their various states of decay
and bedragglement
but cluster under the moon
and practice soaring.
They access secret wisdom
through the use of everyday potions,
imbuing a ripe kitchen
with terrible power.
We can’t even be sure they like us,
for their stares are piercing
as if we are naked
in ways we learned not to be.
On dark nights
when we have no choices left
and find ourselves
clutching cold gravestones
we may peek
towards their circles of firelight.
We can stumble
towards their hot brew,
listen to their harsh songs,
take our place.
Eventually
we feel stirrings,
the urge to fly
becoming
the reason we love witches.