To Cleave the Crone by E.M. McCormack

You peel it from me, inch by inch—my wrinkled skin, my grey hair, my bulbous nose. Then deeper still, your fingers probe and find my brittle knees, my dry womb.

It all comes off.

Now as I writhe in your arms, a Maiden again, the years puddled at my feet like an old coat. I see your eyes blow wide with want, and I know exactly how this ends—Brigid, Morrigan, Mother, Maiden, Crone. So many years, so many faces worn like masks, like tests. 

And everyone fails.

So, when you try for a kiss, my knife cuts quick.