Cursed & Cured

 Cursed & Cured

Out in the desert where the witches dwell,
I found my name carved in a drought-bleached bone—
a curse whispered under a neon sign
flickering like a dying prayer above a dead-end bar.

Whiskey burned its truth into my tongue,
country music bleeding from the jukebox
like a wound that never learned to heal.
Unrequited love sat beside me,
boot heels kicked up,
acting like he owned the night.

Ghosts drifted between the cacti,
soft as the sigh of a past life;
they knew my story,
how I’d worn my boots thin
chasing someone who couldn’t turn toward me
no matter how bright I burned.

But the witches circled back at dawn,
their shawls catching the bourbon-colored light,
their voices a low rattle of mercy.
They crushed mesquite leaves,
mixed them with dust and moonwater,
and painted a sigil on my chest—
half curse, half cure,
all truth.

When the spell settled into my ribs,
I felt the desert’s pulse replace my own.
It didn’t promise love,
only clarity.
Only survival.
Only the fierce calm
of knowing you can walk away,
even with boots worn to their end.

And under that cracked neon sign,
as country chords faded into sunrise,
I learned the simplest magic—
a curse ends where you decide it does,
and the cure begins when you take
your first step toward the horizon.