Scrub your skin with the dirt from a hollow hill.
Brush your body with raven feathers and the blessings of a million hags gone before who have never given a shit about the what looks “nice” to others.
Take all the pots and pans out of your kitchen, clean them with black salt, and bring them outside with your spoons and knives. Make a racket to wake up the earth and let the neighbors know that their local hag has woken up from winter slumber.
Water your garden with the tears shed by those suffering from fragile masculinity to help them grow towards their heart instead of their fear.
Stitch up your worn out clothes with the red thread of intersectionality and luck.
Scare the life back into your heart by grinning so loudly in the mirror that you can see every tooth, fang, and monster song gurgling forth from the back of your throat.
Go to a crossroads, turn to the east, and spit three times so that you never forget how to find your way back.
Stain your lips and fingers with the blood of berries.
Braid thorns into your hair and rub rose dust into your eyebrows.
Never say you’re sorry for making it to another spring. Cackle instead and celebrate the ugly bits that have kept you alive.
Lace up your boots with the stories of your ancestors raging against powers they were told were unbreakable but have long turned to dust.
Greet your witchen kin with right hands grasped, left hand over the heart of the other, foreheads touching. Breath in, breath out. Say, “I fucking love you.”
Remember that hags like you grow like weeds and springtime will never be the same.