My mother once said that falling in love was like playing with fire
She didn’t say that the match was in one hand and kindling in the other
Nor that the pyre was set and the ropes were bound
As a child, I couldn’t understand that sometimes a witch set the fire herself

The first time I fell in love, I learned that sometimes we are desperate to swim but are doomed to drown
That when they offer water at the alter it will turn to sand in our mouths

I quickly learned that it’s not possible to live with a sea or desert surrounding you
That it’s not possible to thrive when they bind your feet and turn gardens to wastelands

What my mother had told me was a cautionary tale
That sometimes a witch would seal her fate if careless

What she never told me was that a witch born again from the ashes would never burn again
That a witch once drowned would walk on water in the next life
Nor that barren wastelands could turn fruitful with the seed of hope

My mother told me a cautionary tale of love returned turned brittle, but not of the strength of self love
That by loving herself, a witch would return anew and find happiness and a love returned grown strong

So we burn and drown and watch gardens waste away, and then

We rise, we swim, and we bloom