I will mix up a potion of hatred for you
in a bottle of ivory white.
But just so you know,
if you take it and go —
this potion carries a bite.
It will rot your insides like a sour-bomb beer
made by brewers who think they’re hot shit.
And your heart will whither
and simper and slither away
as you gather your kit.
You strap on your weapon —
just mind you don’t step on that mirror
you dashed to the floor.
Don’t look in its cracks,
for the face looking back
is the person you truly abhor.
Is it you? Is it him? Is it her? Is it them?
All the eyes looking back — even yours
— can they love, can they mend,
can they seek, can they bend?
Can they find a way out of this war?
It is better I mix you a draught for clear sight,
courage to listen, and power
to return to the days
when you dreamed and you prayed
— made with yarrow and mugwort and dandelion flower.
The price for this balm is your pride
and your strong sense of justice
and (truth-bomb!) your fear.
But I’d be a bad witch if I didn’t insist
that you read the fine print on the potion, my dear.
Yet, if you still want it,
its creamy-white vomit-like smoke
and its galaxy stars,
it costs but a penny
— believe me, I’ve many such orders
to keep me for years.