If loving you was a mistake,
either way—mine to make,
says she, to shape in my hands,
your body. And this pain?
Mine to deal with.
Deserved,
maybe, found guilty,
for trying to trick you
into loving me. Through
the whispers, the touch, she
laughs, inducing only
ecstasy—
What if the burning at the
stake is not the witch's
fate, but her pleasure?
Her final triumph. No end
more fitting. Nowhere
to escape but
in flames.