Neck suspended like low-hanging fruit
Rumored with anecdotes of the Antichrist
But, still, influential enough to stir heavy emotions
"You are beneath the soles of our feet,
the glances that we cast,
and the air that respires from our lungs"
I surrended, "I can't tell time, but I know that my clock has run out"
My written entries spilled my biggest secret
How could a slave write, and so well?
How did she know heavy information about Salem's disease?
To them, it was a no-brainer that I, myself, was
a witch: "only the Devil could have given that information to her"
"She's the true Tituba, she taught her very well"

My defiance against New England socialites
Ending with the exorcism of my courage
Neck suspended, flames kissing my blue-hued toes
And of course, I would do it again
If this is how being a witch ends.