salem

they called it cleansing—

fire to the bone, ash for the heretic.

sins pinned like medals on linen skirts,

lips blistered from the truth,

because god forbid a woman

knows something they do not.

they built pulpits from pyres,

stacked kindling like scriptures,

flames licking the sky in reverence,

smoke twisting, a prayer unanswered.

the only gospel they trusted

was the crack of timber

and the hiss of skin—

a baptism in reverse.

they named fear justice,

etched it in law and loaded muskets,

pointed at whispers,

at the way her eyes didn’t flinch,

at the spine she wouldn’t bend.

they tried to break her,

called her witch like it was a hex,

when all she held was fire,

unwilling to be smothered.

now they sell tickets to the ashes,

tourists with cameras,

grinning through haunted houses,

as if the ghosts are props,

as if the gallows were just wood,

not the weight of every silenced breath.

they still light fires, you know—

just quieter, with pens instead of torches,

smiles instead of nooses.

they call it progress.

i call it the same damn smoke.