11/13/2023

Dear journal,

Here, I sit, alone, in this small room, on this old bed.

As I look at the walls, blank and white, so empty,

I remember how the walls of my bedroom back home

Were filled with family pictures.

There, on the desk, the only color, a lonely spot of red,

The remnants of a corrective pen. I miss the colors, them, me,

My family. I hate this room, this new life, of monochrome

With seven empty drawers.

Little, so little, I have collected since I arrived here, in Afire,

In a mountain of socks. A pencil, an outfit, a pillow case,

“Wait, just wait, for graduation day. There will be more.”

But never like before.

There aren’t high-paying salaries to which I can aspire.

There’s only one ambition that a witch can chase.

Only the August Witches receive gifts of grandeur.

Others trade and endure.

Oh, how I long to have the privileges of an August Witch,

But to become one, no, I lack the audacity.

Signed,

Clove