Witch Hunt

I want to miss you

without being called hormonal.

Am I the girl who’s never normal,

or just the ghost

dragging angels into immoral?

They say, “she is the death you chose,”

“she was sent to destroy you.”

I fed the storm inside your chest,

I made your heart a battlefield, a chess.

You were sleeping soundly

when I drug you from your bed—

every bloodshed, every wound to the head,

pulling you down into my abyss,

and you thought this life would be a bliss.

I shadowed you through every street,

my chaos humming beneath your feet.

No turn, no prayer, no locked-up door

could save you from what I had in store.

I slept beside you, lips like steel,

my claws in shadow, my teeth conceal.

I struck in stillness, unseen, complete—

your heart my prey, my nightly feast.

The body you whisper of lies cold, stripped bare,

your screams claw nothing but the empty air.

I am a beautiful terror, fanged and divine,

blooming from death like a blood-soaked vine.

Now they’re in the streets, screaming burn the witch,

I am the bitch with the hungriest pitch.

Your hate is my feast, your fear my crown,

I am the predator you cannot drown.

If I’m as deadly as you claim I am,

then why hasn’t my next victim ran?

If my touch is poison, my love a crime,

why does your fear still taste like wine?

If I’m as deadly as your stories say,

then why does no one turn away?

If my kiss kills, if I bring doom,

why do they beg to share my tomb?

But I am flesh, not phantom flame,

I dream of love, I bleed the same.

Not every woman’s born for hell—

I’m more than what your stories tell.

I dream, I fear, I bleed, I yearn,

I only wanted love’s return.

My tears aren’t curses, they’re just rain,

a mortal girl who knows of pain.

I’m not the monster hiding under men’s beds,

I’m the ghost that weeps for the words unsaid.

A woman who loved until she bled,

not some nightmare their mothers fed.

I’m not the monster hiding under men’s beds,

I’m the girl who cries for the life she shed.

I built my heart from the things I’ve lost,

and paid for love at too high a cost.

I want to miss you without the shame,

without the warning, “she’s unstable.”

But maybe love was never tame—

maybe love was always meant

to be a little fatal.

They aimed for my heart; they went for blood.

I wander naked in the public glare,

heart in hand, stripped painfully bare.

Begging to be seen through their fright and scorn,

just a woman who loved, who bled, who mourned.

Chloe