Boys will be boys—my hands are tied! 

A witch, they scream, she’s the devil’s crook,  

She’s seasoned with sins. I burn—I cook. 

My body is here! Mine! And naked upon the stake. 

So, gird your loins for the big strip tease:

The fire and myself at one, at ease. 

A biting blaze dances a tango upon my toes. 

I scream for this rank and nasty pleasure.  

I am hot! So very hot, am I not? 

The bare bones of my feet simmer in a pool 

Of waxy crimson flesh, as I blithely splash 

In this rich red wine of mine. I bleed—they dine! 

Gaze upon the flames cavorting up and around my legs;

Oh! They are but children in the April rain, feasting on  

Such tender thighs—the meat slips right off the bone! 

Up my torso they triumphantly climb,

Higher and harder, I beg. 

Until I am perfectly ablaze. I roast—I rot

∎

Words by Imogen Forrest. Art by Indiana Sharp.