dead man's toe

Neatly organized ingredients:
owl’s blood, viper’s tongue,
bat-wings; dried and powdered,
oleander extract’s poison,
dead man’s toe,
yes, she’s managed to obtain it all.

Evil she is not, I suppose, sometimes
‘x’ doesn’t mark the spot;
poor choices do not define a person,
even if her plan is wicked,
corrupted hearts
thrive only in the cruelty of existence;
she is lost, but not malicious.

The witch is just a scorned sorcerer,
her magic is as light as it is dark;
evil is just a matter of opinion.

She once was like a fairy,
pure and innocent;
a fragile being filled with hope and magic,
never to unleash her powers
in an attempt to
hate in the poor hearts of foolish lovers.

I can only say that I pity her fate,
never did I expect my
quivering hand,
used hesitantly and foremost
in fear of retribution,
scribbling this letter to you, dear reader;
ink seems to be my last resort, and
this letter will be sent twice
in the hope my
once figured true love will timely
notice its hidden message.

Let fate decide hers - M.A. Tempels © 2016


Your head was throbbing and you groaned softly as you attempted to open your eyes. God it seemed like you had been out forever, basically dead to the world. You could remember the last thing you saw, that brute of a mans fist coming at your face in slow motion. And then nothing.

Your eyes felt like they were glued closed, and you fought to blink them open, not expecting the excruciatingly fluorescent lights that greeted you when you finally did. Everything was white, and you squeezed your lids closed tight thinking you might still be in an unconscious dream. 

A shadow passed over you and suddenly a man was standing there, over you, his bright green eyes staring at you like you were something out of a horror movie. You saw his eyebrows knit as he leaned in closer and you tried to shrink away, opening your mouth to tell him to get out of your space but what came out of your mouth was a dry and shriveled “help”.