Confessions of a Black Witch

Red lipstick stained the wine glass, a cigarette hanging from her parted lips. The way she moved, the way her hips swayed as she slowly walks across the room and set her wine glass on the fancy kitchen island tells stories of confidence and sexuality. She was beauty. She was a goddess. And she knew it. She knew how much power she held in that perfect body of her and she knew how to use it. Oh yes. It was perfect. She was finally perfect. Men wanted to f**k her. They kissed the ground she walked on. They all wanted her. Woman envied her. They wanted to be her. Her enemies feared her. But still, something was missing inside of her. The heels of her favorite Alexa suede boots slipped in the thick red liquid that pooled at her feet. She looked down at the body that stained the once white shaggy carpet of the upscale apartment that nestled mid New York city. The love of her life lay lifeless in front of her. She had been staring at his body for hours. No one knew he was here. She just watched: waiting. Even though she had been crying she couldn't help but feel... Nothing. There was nothing left inside to feel. Her bare knees hit the floor and she reached out to him. Not to feel him but to rake her manicured fingers through the thick blood that drained from her lovers body. There was so much of it. His eyes that were so lively, so loving, were clouded and glazed. She could barely make out the deep blue/green in them anymore. His face was cold against her hand as she trailed her fingers across his cheek, leaving behind blood imprinted fingerprints. He looked so perfect laying there. Like a porcelain doll. "You were supposed to be mine." They warned her. They told her playing with blood magick would have it's consequences.