Rita loves poetry, fiction, and literature that uplifts the spirit ☕️ Do you want to buy Rita a coffee? → https://www.buymeacoffee.com/ritaarosemena

A short story about how Christianity demonized witchcraft.

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Tikkho Maciel on Unsplash

Witchcraft. What a misunderstood concept.

For centuries we have been told horror stories where some witch is guilty of sacrificing chickens and goats, or stealing the soul of an innocent to offer it to Satan.

They also blame witches for unfaithful men, infertility, drought, hunger, misery… If something bad has happened in the last 2,000 years, a witch has been to blame.

Understanding the origins and true essence of witchcraft can be shocking to some people, especially Christians. …


Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Eric Ward on Unsplash

Becoming a man would have had a disastrous impact on me as a human being, considering how much I hated to be a woman.

Since I was a little girl, my greatest dream was to be a boy.

It isn’t usual, but I always knew that I was different in some way. I felt trapped in my female body while my friends at high school enjoyed theirs.

They wanted boobs, hips, and a handsome boyfriend. I wanted muscles, pectorals, and strong legs.

I remember myself going to bed and praying, with all my heart and hope on it:

“Please, please, let me be a boy at least for one day tomorrow”

I was born in Panama, where sex change is still a controversial issue.

By law, you can’t change your gender in your ID at least that you take off your pants to show a doctor that you do have a penis.


A poem about loving a woman.

Image for post
Image for post
The Bite (1914) by Edvard Munch. Original from The Art Institute of Chicago (Public Domain)

A woman making love to a woman
is like swinging on the edge of a wet abyss
where nothing can be held without sliding
and clocks get out of tune.

Time is prolonged as deforming
while they fall into the abyss slowly
without hurting themselves,
without stopping the act of love that is like
fresh water and flowers and honey
flooding the lips.

Nothing can stop two bodies
merging
into one sweet, enraged sound.
In a cry of surrender,
both women can die,
and find endless life at the
same time.


A poem about joining forces to be born again.

Image for post
Image for post
Skull of a cow (1816) by Jean Bernard (1775–1883). Original from The Rijksmuseum (Public Domain)

I am buried.
The rain bounces off the sky.
It remakes itself as it rises
and falls, while I hide
under the ground
from this hostile realism.

If rain can be reinvented,
so can I.
At any moment, when you least suspect it,
I will get up and bounce through this dark
world.
No one will see me escape,
no one will recognize me
when they meet my eyes again.

I will become a raging hurricane.
I aim to swallow shame like air.
I will be reborn. From overnight.
One of these days.


A poem about broken dreams.

Image for post
Image for post
Orangutan (Orangoetan) (1914) print in high resolution by Samuel Jessurun de Mesquita. Original from The Rijksmuseum

Days go by and life runs over me
as if I had lost a bet that restarts itself
although it seems to be a new game
in fact it is the same
and as everything begins again
I cannot help but think about
everything that I could have done before
and did not do.

Everything that I could have been
and am not.


A poem about seeing the future.

Image for post
Image for post
Snow from Momoyogusa–Flowers of a Hundred Generations (ca. 1909–1910) by Kamisaka Sekka. Original from the The New York Public Library

Last night I saw a ghost,
the ghost was me.
She had another body
but pain was the same.
She had another skin
but wearing my scars.
She had other eyes
but they were just as empty.
She had other lips
but trembling as well.
She had another heart
but it was shattered.

Tonight I will see her again,
we will be exactly the same.


A poem about fighting darkness.

Image for post
Image for post
Reclining naked woman. Knielend vrouwelijk naakt (ca. 1913–1942) by Jacob Merkelbach. Original from The Rijksmuseum

Out of the dark night
she emerges,
her mouth remains open
to swallow men.
She has no tongue or teeth, just an endless
abyss
shaped like a circle that I
can’t stop staring
at, because she’s me,
looking at me
whilst I look at myself.

When she is hungry, I squirm
as if I’ve been craving
during days
or years
for something
I could eat
but shouldn’t.

Now she’s here
and a stinging shakes
my whole body
as I try to convince
myself
that it is she,
not me,
but she who swallows men
and crawls back into the darkness.
Without remorse.
Back into my dark soul.


A poem about… well, my true self.

Image for post
Image for post
Illustration by Rawpixel

I don’t want to make friends.
Who cares, anyway?
Nobody needs my approval
to live by themselves.

My solitude and I have
unleashed my potential.
Why would I leave my cave if
suffering is not essential?

I tried to by sociable — I swear,
but I’m too existentialist.
I would change the way I am,
but I am my own therapist.

Sometimes, I feel so guilty
that I decide to be approachable…
It doesn’t work very well,
since I don’t care to be sociable.

Am I a bad person?
Should I take some meds?
I’m feeling remorse now,
so I’ll go to bed.


A poem about mourning.

Image for post
Image for post
Death in the Sickroom (1896) by Edvard Munch. Original from The Art Institute of Chicago

I see demons everywhere
disguised as old lovers.
Do they want to hunt me?

Am I a beast
or a treasure?

They stare at me through the window;
then fade without warning.
Sometimes, I see their shadows
descending with the morning.

Are they demons
or memories?

Deep down, I suspect
there’s nothing, nobody.
Just me and the mourning,
while my soul is burning.


A poem on how to love correctly.

Image for post
Image for post
Naked woman showing her breasts, vintage erotic art. Female Nude (1890) by James Wells Champney. Original from The Smithsonian.

Love the stretch marks on her hips,
in all their shapes,
senses and directions,
and love them when you see them,
love them in their nakedness,
and not when fake skin hides them.

Love every scar,
birthmark,
mole,
and freckle on her body.
But love them because they are worthy of love,
and never “in spite of them.”

Love her feet because they are ships of freedom,
and do it no matter at what pace they ply the streets
or with whom they prefer to walk.

Love her pain,
her inconsistency,
her darkest hours. …

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store