Santa Muerte
For years, I catch glimpses of her—
hear her whisper in the early morning.
I don’t know I needed her until
my fear was a deep well—
my heart, a goblet overflowing.
Her black robes cover me
and mine—we are safe in the darkness
of the new moon— among peonies,
plumeria, and violets—feast on their petals
to heal wounds I cannot stitch in the light.
In the silence, I am cradled.
Marisa is a poet, bruja, spirit companion, and contributing writer for Pussy Magic.
Growing up in the Southwest influenced her magickal practices, and she considers herself a kitchen witch. In her free time, she enjoys reading about the Fae Folk, scandals in Old Hollywood, and the spirits of the sea. She is obsessed with kitschy motels in the desert, mermaids, vampires, and pinups. In her twenties she attended UEA in England, and misses being able to sit in pubs, people watch, and write.
You can find her on Instagram, Tumblr, and Twitter @thesweetmaris.