The witch had a body of a different kind.
Where other skin was smooth, hers made an exception!
Here and there it was dry,
sometimes displayed the marks even
of those days in er past.
Where some bodies were round, her curves were more!
Breasts to get lost in,
harder to overlook,
for she blossomed so intensely.
Where hearts were beating, hers was racing!
Disrupting the rhythm.
Making them shiver,
For her chest could burst.
Looking around at the others made her question herself,
and question her kind.
Made her study her skin and her breasts,
and doubt her heart.
Would her body ever produce like theirs‘?
Would she give life as they had done?
With her skin not soft,
and her breasts more than requested?
A heart too fast?
Would she ever make a body like theirs?
Soft and smooth,
formed too fit its place?
Unharmed and painless,
ready to live?
What if the witch did not want to make use of her body?
Where was her strength to have something grow within her?
How much pain could she take?
She never fit their place anyways.
Mistress witch writes 