I am not enchanted

I am not enchanted

The dreams came but they weren’t dreams
I was awake but I felt hands, fists, the heat of the witch’s oven.
No gingerbread enticed me just stories.
I would rather have the gingerbread,
Candy canes entering my mouth.
So I cut myself, intricate whorls, the meanings of an Irish sacrament
transcribed in ink by monks who believed
an infinite number of angels could dance on the head of a pin
because they are incorporeal, no bodies to hurt.
I cut myself. One night with razors I cut myself so many times,
drew upon myself images, words, curving lines
until I could not move for a day.
Arms, legs, belly enflamed. Someone could have read it.
I was a princess enchanted by pain not sleep,
the rose briers were embedded into my skin.
But it was not enchanted, I was simply an outsider to pleasure.
The fists were meant simply to hurt.