Illustration by Anya Baker.

WYTCH

And you run from it,
Through the grass and stinging nettles,
Dirt on your hands, mud under your nails.
Coughing and spitting up blood and bile,
And you run from it.

You can hear them,
There are no birds singing,
The wind howls and burns your ears.
If you trip and fall it’ll be over,
You can hear them.

Curse them all,
Mumbling names between haggard breaths,
Ignoring the pain that racks through your body.
Whether dead or alive,
You are going to curse them all.

By Lillian Nunno