Their round, round 

Eyes peer up

At the lonely 

Cottage,

Or perhaps,

The dark wood.

They say that’s where

The darkness lurks.

The evil witches 

And the big, bad wolf.

But maybe, just maybe

The wicked engulfs us all.

What fangs

Hide behind

Those rosy lips?

What nails

Are poised inside

Those tiny, clenched fists?

Perhaps I should’ve

Expected less

From rural New York.

But young, innocent me didn’t really

Know any better. 

Those sweet, sweet

Smiles turned rotten

As they scrutinized

My dark skin.

And even with

My round, round eyes

And my rosy lips,

I became a witch

With distorted skin

And ragged hair.

And those little children,

They're laughing,

And pointing, and shrieking.

And the dreadful sound

Gnaws at my guts.

Their innocence 

And goodness

Melts away with

Each wicked cackle.

And suddenly,

Even if they don’t know it

They were the villains 

Their parents warned them of.

It is in these fairytales that

We weep for the children

We pray for the children

The source of light 

In this abundance of black.

But what of the witches,

And the big, bad wolf?

Were they not children

Once too?