When I’m in our bed
suffocating under
limbs, feathers
I sweat and dream
of coating my flesh
with a balm of
herbs-ashes-blood-gold
and squirming free
of your heavy hand
to chase glimpses and strands
of a hag’s crackled white hair
bent, wild
like horrified birch trees.
© Nancy Botta, 2018
Rusted Honey 
How powerful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
This needs music. More specifically, black metal. None of that overly-polished or needlessly-lo-fi stuff, some proper, well produced stuff. None of that blackgaze or whatever, just straight up. “The Calling” – even the name is ominous and beautiful and terrible to behold.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Very visceral word choices here. Ended up grimacing toward the end, ha.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oh I really like this one! The image formed by “strands of a hag’s crackled white hair
bent, wild like horrified birch trees” is so very wonderful!! I wish I could give this more than one “like”!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Surprising and delightful, deliciously evocative!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Brilliantly written
LikeLiked by 1 person