Be Witched

What if I took my own sword, heirloom and legacy, down from its place above the mantel and made it the sacred blood-letting tool for this rite?

And what if the shining blade of each scalpel that carved into me, was, in fact, the tip of that very sword? Shape shifted for precision work, cloaked and disguised for your hand so you could play high priest, lay me on your altar and slice me open again and again?  

That would mean it was always and ever only my ritual, not yours.  

That would mean I am Sorceress.

And what if each slice transformed me into a stained glass window, lit from behind by the moon? 

That would mean the reflection in the mirror that tells the story of deep cuts is a codex that speaks of a cauldron in my belly. 

That would mean the traces on my body are runes, crafted by me, for me.  Spells that etched themselves into my flesh, guided by the whispered invocations of my cells.  

That would mean my craft resides in my very flesh, the strongest spells from my grimoire scribed on my skin. 

What if those runes speak of pleasure, desire? What if they invoke power, presence?  

That would mean I am Witch.