Between Bruises & Blooms

Three in the morning

is when the sensible world
bolts its doors
and pretends nothing magical exists.

But the witches know.

We have always belonged
to the hour that smells of rain,
ash,
and old secrets.

My cauldron tonight
is nothing more
than a chipped coffee mug.

My potion—
a handful of vitamins,
cold water,
and the stubborn promise
that I deserve to wake up tomorrow.

I cleanse my skin
like washing old hexes
from my bones.

I braid my hair
as if weaving protection spells
between every strand.

The candle on my windowsill
does not ask
who broke me.

It simply burns.

Outside,
the crows are still dreaming.
The moon keeps every confession
I whisper into the darkness.

Tonight,
self-care is not glamorous.

It is choosing
not to become
another ghost
haunting my own body.

It is feeding the soul
that everyone assumed
would eventually starve.

So I stir invisible spells
into my tea,
kiss the scars
that survived their makers,
and leave an offering
to the woman
I am still becoming.

When dawn finally arrives,

they will call it
another ordinary morning.

Only the moon
will know

that somewhere around
three in the morning,

a witch
saved her own life
with nothing more
than tenderness.