I was born in a haunted mansion upstate. We moved. I lived in the South. I learned witchcraft in my sleep. In a dream, the goddess Hera came to me dressed in sunflowers. I prayed to her on waking. I moved to Richmond and became a teenager.
I cut off my hair. My facets of desire shifted. I packed the green dress into the closet. I wore six pounds of kohl around my eyes. I went to Japan; I went to college;
I probably learned something besides how to act like a girl, but I don’t remember.
When my prescribed education ended, the panic of uncertainty began. I panicked for years. I went to graduate school. I forgot a lot of things there. It ended. I looked around and couldn’t remember why I’d done something like that. I sold designer jeans to elderly women at a department store. I moved. I’m here now. I forget why.
I’m sulking through time. I cocoon in my malaise like a fortress. I dream about the past as often as the future. I wish I could remember what the witches taught me.
I wish I could remember how to channel fire through the lines of my body. I wish I could remember how to have power over anything.
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