We Monsters

 

No one kisses the witch.

For the witch cares nothing

about the innocent, the sacred.

She’ll steal a baby like it

was a loaf of bread. She takes

a plate of warm, beating heart

with her afternoon tea.

 

No one loves a villain. No.

A villain tosses poisoned apples

and hairpins like playthings. Curses spill

from her lips like songs,

and, anyway, she’ll be gone

by the end.

 

No one holds us monsters,

we who kill with a glance, or a swipe

of the claw. We travel by night,

cloaked in solitude. We hide

our unnatural faces,

even from ourselves.

 

We witches, we villains, we dragons,

we thieves. We monsters.

We wait for you to arrive,

armed with righteousness and pickaxes.

We know, we deserve this,

to meet our end as you

dispense correct justice.

We burn. We drown.

Our heads roll, like overripe fruit, at your

feet.

 

Yet some of us will live.

We’ll slink back into our cold caves,

sharpen our knives by the dying light of embers.

We’ll get what we need.

If it means someone has to bleed,

so be it.