They came up with a word whose meaning they don’t understand not just because they  immediately lost it once they tried to make it stick on us but because to defend  ourselves we turned it into magic and they don’t understand magic.

I don’t mean “black magic,” which could exist only if there was such a thing as white  magic. 

Just magic. 

Calling magic black is another attempt to demonize/demean power that’s fundamentally  female rather than mentally male. 

Call it black, call it white, we girls don’t give a damn. 

I challenge men who want to “love” me just a little more than they want to kill me. 

I beat them to it. 

Have your fill; I don’t feel a thing. 

Like it or not I am a witch because I possess power that’s magical and the sweetness of  my skin strays on the success with which I do or do not acknowledge that power. 

And I do. 

Acknowledge but not over-think it. I pay my shrink to over-think. 

That’s the point of magic.

It defies law, logic, and man-made explanations of mysteries that have no alphabet in  which to frack a clue. 

Thinking can’t compete with a woman who’s complete. 

I am a witch not because I (fe)malevolently wish my husband to die (I don’t) so that I  can be rid of him and emerge rich (ha!); not because I want the current affair to proceed  without a hitch; not because I cackle when I look up at men standing there quivering  with lust while wearing not a stitch; not because I hate the fact that man’s default epithet  for women they hate but pretend to love is nothing less than the repellently disrespectful bitch; not because I consider my boyfriends little more than a congeries of amusing  kitsch . . . . . . . . . . but because despite knowing all these things about magic, beauty,  and malevolent men, I find myself, after searching my fate/face in the mirror, dying to  abandon this vehicle in a litter-dappled ditch. 

[The car behind her honked.] 

“Green!” she shrieked, speeding off. 

“A broomstick! A broomstick! 

This Beemer for a broomstick!” 

…