a poem by Victoria Mier

I don’t—can’t— trick or treat 
not like I used to, not anymore. 
Now I must 
braid my hair with woodsmoke,
lick rosemary off my fingertips,
paint my face with candle wax— 
but they won’t let me out like this,
not on these tree-lined streets,
not in my mother’s neighborhood.
They’ll confiscate me— 
I don’t look like a costume
and the children are frightened.
So I sheath my wands 
I unbraid my hair
I go home
I sit beside the bonfire
and I knock on all the doors of myself
until the frames rattle like leaves. 

Victoria Mier (she/her) is a writer, witch & bookseller. She is published extensively as a reporter, but has only recently begun submitting her strange tales to fiction outlets, like Luna Luna Magazine & A Witch’s Craft. She hopes this poem made you uncomfortable. You can follow her on Instagram at @victoria_mier