Witch

“People go around mourning the death of God; it's the death of sssin that bothers me. Without ssin, people aren't people any more, they're just ssoul-less sheep.” 
― John Updike, The Widows of Eastwick

“Once upon a time there was a lady. She had no children, and no happiness either. And at first she cried for a long time, but then she became wicked...” 

― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

When the stars fade out. And the snakes begin to fall from the sky. And your parents don’t remember your face. Or what the purpose of  the human race is. Race for what? 

The brilliant roundness of the only planet that gave and could ever give us a heartbeat becomes the burden we must all carry. The sky – the blue curse we won’t escape.

When music never plays again. When wine turns into water.
You can’t remember your own daughter.
The laughter  is never heard anymore and if it is, it doesn't bring joy.
An annoying ringing reminding us of our naïve existence.

When the soundtrack to your life becomes the crying of your wife.
All hells break loose, blood instead of orange juice.
The rings of fire surround the liars. The circle of doom in every room.
Suicide becomes a self-help method and the geography of arteries and veins is taught at church.
Death is your religion.
Because no one wants to be here.
Everyone wants to be the first to go.

Your courage to live is your weakness.
Your insistent  desire for balance is your flaw.
The last tiny remaining hope is worth about as much as a needle.
Which is sold on every street corner.

This is the moment she will shine. With her heart of mould and her glass half broken, looking on the dark side. Envy and lust and sloth - her royal companions.
This is the world where she will be the queen because she can’t live any other way.
Her hellish ways are frowned upon no more, truly rotten to the core but beautiful as the sting of heartbreak or the surgical incision of a knife. Which are basically the same thing.
Until then she’ll have to conceal her true nature…