It was inside out—

my flesh burning.

I’d always wondered what it felt like

to put my finger on the edge of the

flaming stove in my kitchen.

But I was filled with cowardice,

so I’d never dared.

Maybe it would have readied me

for this moment when my skin is sizzling apart, piece by piece.

I pretend

the flame is so soothing,

its ashes a cover.

As its end comes,

my life flashes before me.

I was born a girl, then grew into a woman.

But I’d been unnatural from my very beginning.

Birthmarks marred my face—

one side of my face brown as the earth,

the other darker than a moonless sky.

“Strange child,” they’d said.

Mama kept me away.

She warned:

“Daughter, stay away from them.

The moment you get close,

you’ll become a scapegoat.”

So as I grew older, I kept myself away.

Mama taught me all there was to know

inside our home.

Then Mama died.

When I saw a woman who needed help,

I’d thought I’d let her die.

Just like Mama had died,

and no one would help.

It was neither my place nor my role.

But the knowledge in me begged to be free.

So I mixed all the herbs I knew,

created a cure

for a sickness so great

that all the doctors in town

could not even name it.

Soon, woman after woman

began coming for cures,

begging.

I no longer had to hide away.

They loved me—or so

I had hoped—

as soon as I came out of the darkness.

They called me a witch.

A witch!

Mama was right.

So I was tied to the stake.

They all watched me—pitiless, pleased, forgetful.

All the women I helped

watched me with blank looks,

as if I had not come out of the darkness to help.

So today I curse them and their progeny

as they bring me pain and a broken heart.

A witch I die today.