They called her a witch. 

Such was her beauty that it mesmerized, flowing dark hair and luscious lips and vibrant eyes.  Heads turned where she walked.  Chaos followed where she talked.

They called her a witch. 

Yet she was not one to make potions for love, desire, or lust.  She stood in front of vials and tubes and lit fires beneath liquids until they turned into fumes--but it was not magic, nor sorcery.  It was a ritual, but involved no chants.  No prayer, not like they believed.  No sacrificial lambs, not like they claimed.

They called her a witch.

And she was powerful, like one.  She made things burn, she made things rise, she made clouds out of empty blue skies.  She knew precisely when it would rain, when the bees would dive in nectar veins.  She knew how to tell a rock from a gem, a diamond from coal, a poison ivy from a healing thorn. 

            They called her a witch.

When she mended their bones, and stitched them back together. 

            They called her a witch.

When she held the reins, and came to their rescue.

            They called her a witch.

When she bathed under the moonlight, studying the crystals littered on her path.

            They called her a witch.

When all she did was do what they all did.

            They.  Called.  Her.  A. Witch.

And they burned her with stakes.  Drowned her in dark, dark smoke.  Called her monster in various tongues.  Sneered their faces in disgust.  Left her bones for the wolves to devour.  They allowed her blood to seep through the ground, this sacred ground where freedom is preached but never practiced.  They made her a trophy, a horror story, a tale to tell young girls with dreams of making the skies cry on command.  A horrifying example to stop hopes between little girls who wish to explore the sun, the earth, the sky, the realities hidden in plain sight.  They made her an icon of misery.

            They called her a witch.

And everyone that came after her.  One by one, they fell.  They bathed in blood on their children’s hands.  Tongues cut out to drown her noises.  Lashes whipped down to keep her quiet.  Scared.  Terrified to move.  They screamed at her ears to silence her ideas and made her afraid of her own mind.  They slowly, slowly, violently battered her down until the whole world became a nightmare instead of a dream - until the questions she wanted to answer became a hole in her brain that will never see the light of day.

            They called her a witch, and made her afraid.

            But, no more.

            This ends now.

            This ends with us.

            This ends when we finally realize how valuable a woman’s touch, a woman’s voice, a woman’s words undeniably are. 

            This ends when we all see, as we should, that women are the future.

            The brilliance of a woman ends not in our ability to bring forth life, to make magic with our bodies, to mesmerize with our songs.

            This ends when we see.

            This ends when everyone starts to see.

            Women are the future.

            This power, our power, is not given.

            Knowledge is earned.

            Witches aren’t born, but forged.

            So let them call her a witch, or whatever else they feel like saying.

            We shall be the witches that will turn over the reality of today.

Women, bathe in blood.  Today.