I stand naked in front of the mirror
and burn myself at the stake
for every imperfection,
every little thing that I hate.
If I was a better witch,
you would only see pretty.

Not this tangled mess of hair,
matted from sleepless nights.
Nor the scars on my arms,
from generations of life-gone-wrong.
Not my imperfect skin, wrinkled and flawed
from years of stress and worry -
nor the extra pounds I seem to so effortlessly gain, and wear with such shame.

Shame, the same like the tears that run down my cheeks.
All these things I hate.
These things - this body
that does not fit me
that does not satisfy.

I would sell every piece of me
just to bewitch you.