These tan curves and gold curls are lies. I want to take a razor to the slope of my belly and dredge out my intestines. Beat my brain on the pavement and screw pins into my skin. Beautiful, they say, but I know I am ugly as the Beast. That is why we get along so well, because I am the witch that eats men in the woods, seductress, your destruction, and my eyes are pools you will drown in.
I want to feel a gun to the head, just the weight of it against a temple to make gray matter a moon bow on the wall. I want a razor to carve pretty lies onto my thighs and rest my decapitated head on my lap. Monster, monster, in the looking glass. Suicide, matricide, martyr. I’m the mother of no one, but still they come to me wailing, drink my blood milk, and maybe I’m Babylon and a wild whore strapped between two needfires with albino crows, cawing in song with my children, but on the surface? You would never know.
I don’t say I’m an enchantress, but there’s the shamanic journeying, the five-fold kiss, the familiars and demons and angels and gods all clashing in my head like the Wild Hunt. I’ve gone mad, dreamed of drowning, thought of perilous calls as Hati and Skoll chase me through the tundra. I’ve had the Devil play my organs like the finest of violins and still my music would be better if he snapped my spine instead of caressing it.
Divinity wants to break me open and suck the stars from my marrow. I rant, I rave, I froth at the mouth – the true Beast is Cipactli, Tiamat, the She-Leviathan, a Mother of the Deep that possesses me to dance with wild abandon. I will devour all and leave blank snow in my wake, Kelvin zero. I’m out of control, and today is a day for damnation.
Slut. Whore. Temptress. Jezebel. Woman Clad in Night. I will be the Thunder Perfect Mind Sophia, Alpha and Omega as I straddle the corpse of my lover and pound him into the dirt. I am not sane, I am the mad she-bitch that nursed Managarm, Angrboda of the Iron Woods, consort of chaos but master of the giants that will eat Midgard.
Once I was beautiful, terrible to behold, a blushing Psyche, now I’ve donned the snakes of Medusa and I will rake my serpents through the dirt in bind runes to summon Walpurgisnacht devils from the mountains. I am Terror, I am Fury, I am Wrath. Scorn me and face the angel of death, White Reaper riding on the tempest of Satan’s heart, flame sword glory general of the Prince of Heaven.
I see through your ruses. Your lies. Your pretty words and cloying compliments.
I know what I am.
I am wild, untamed.
The beast in the forest.
The monster of my disease.
And I will eat you, madman.
All to discover your magic.