The Witch’s Mirror: What I See When I Don’t Flinch

 

I see the circles under my eyes—

not tiredness, but proof.

Proof I have survived

too many nights with ghosts whispering my name.

I see stretch marks like spell lines,

like the runes of a body that has grown,

bled, fed, birthed, grieved, and remade itself.

I see the softness in my arms

and remember how many have curled into them

seeking safety.

Including myself.

I see the crooked smile—

the one I tuck away when I feel too much,

and I let it rise.

Because too much is still honest.

Too much is still sacred.

I see the scar near my heart and know—

that was the lesson I didn’t want

but needed.

I see the fire in my gaze.

The kind that doesn’t beg to be loved anymore.

It demands to be respected.

I see the witch in the glass:

Her flaws, her flame, her softness and steel.

I do not flinch.

I do not shrink.

I whisper:

“You are the spell now.”

Mirror of mine, truth divine,

I see myself—

and that is power.

I see myself—

and that is power.

Mirror of mine, truth divine,

I see myself—

and that is power.