under her eye
luna
beneath the mother moon, in the thin of the veil, the wild witch begins her dance. with bare skin swathed in alabaster and wild hair full of stars, she twirls through the wheat — accompanied only by the choir of katydids in distant trees. they sing a hymn of eternal devotion while the scent of myrrh lingers in the warm air of night. she raises weary eyes to the sky and basks in the magick of the plenilune. though she is without coven, a true wild witch knows she is never alone.



“wild hair full of stars” ❤️❤️❤️
This felt like a call to the witchy, truthful nature within all women - not to be hidden, but lived as something burning at the core of identity.