Sticks and stones break mortals’ bones 
But for a witch, they heal 
 
Until fire ashens me, as it does the trees; 
The dryads are my kin. 
 
Pile peeling bark betwixt another, 
Light the match and ask yourself 
 
Does she scream in agony 
Or in pleasure? 

...What are her words? 

...Why do I hurt?