“The point is in this whole wide wicked world the only thing you have to be afraid of is me.” ~ Fiona Goode
Happy Halloween to the friends, readers, and those who dare to tread in these treacherous stretches of the internet without ever having met me. The latter is likely the luckiest of them all, and Halloween is the most harmless time of the year when you consider how much hurt I’ve caused the rest of the days. Yes, I said it. And I know it. The day doesn’t seem all that scary anymore.
… The who’s who of “Who’s that?” is poised for the attackBut my bare hands paved their pathsYou don’t get to tell me about sad
… If you wanted me dead, you should’ve just saidNothing makes me feel more alive
… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your streetCrash the party like a record scratch as I scream“Who’s afraid of little old me?”You should be…
… The scandal was containedThe bullet had just grazedAt all costs, keep your good nameYou don’t get to tell me you feel bad
… Is it a wonder I broke? Let’s hear one more jokeThen we could all just laugh until I cry
… So I leap from the gallows and I levitate down your streetCrash the party like a record scratch as I scream“Who’s afraid of little old me?”
Halloween used to begin with such innocence and end with such guilt. In my secret heart of hearts, I always wanted to be a beautiful witch – in a costume layered and rich with flowing robes, hidden jewel tones of royal violet beneath velvet as black as the darkest night. Boys couldn’t be witches then, even if we really were on the inside. The rage stayed contained – it whirled and spun and ravaged all that was inside me. It ate me up before anyone even noticed I was disappearing. The most wicked among us were devoured long ago.
I was tame, I was gentle ’til the circus life made me mean“Don’t you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth”Who’s afraid of little old me?Well, you should be
… So tell me everything is not about meBut what if it is?Then say they didn’t do it to hurt meBut what if they did?
My potions are perfume. My spells are words. My broom is the straw-man in my head, taking me away to anywhere but here. My exorcism is your antidote. You’ve come for relief or relapse, and I have nothing to offer of either. Long ago, I learned to forge a way separate from whatever you wanted me to be. There was always disappointment in that. I know there was. I felt it too. Maybe that’s why some of us turn into witches – the world is too wicked to make it through being anything else.
… I wanna snarl and show you just how disturbed this has made meYou wouldn’t last an hour in the asylum where they raised meSo all you kids can sneak into my house with all the cobwebsI’m always drunk on my own tears, isn’t that what they all said?That I’ll sue you if you step on my lawnThat I’m fearsome and I’m wretched and I’m wrongPut narcotics into all of my songsAnd that’s why you’re still singing along
Let them call you those names – the ones that rhyme with ‘rich’ and ‘hunt’ – as they reveal who they are in their vain attempts to skin you alive. It’s going to hurt, and we shouldn’t pretend it won’t. Yes, I’m sorry to say, there is going to be much pain in this whole wide wicked world. And there is much reason to be afraid.
… You caged me and then you called me crazyI am what I am ’cause you trained meSo who’s afraid of me?Who’s afraid of little old me?Who’s afraid of little old me?
