SOUTHERN GOTHIC ALTERNATE UNIVERSE
He says wash your hands, get out the stains
But you best believe, boy, there’s hell to pay
they called her a witch because her hair was like a flame and she would look them in the eyes with a wide smile on her face. that poor, poor widow takin’ care of you, her only baby all by herself. he died in the war, they whisper, that husband of hers. the bruises on her arms never seemed to fade, but he died in the war and she should be okay. but she talks to him, that witch, they whisper. she talks and she talks to that dead husband of hers, and they call her a sinner. they throw mud at her back when she walks into town. she wears no shoes and you cling to her hand and they say she loves you in ways that a mother shouldn’t love her baby boy. does she touch you, they cry, and she murmurs for you to keep your mouth shut. you do, of course you do, but they still throw that mud and it makes you so angry.
He says, son, you come like a beggar in the streets
You might make it, boy, but by the skin of your teeth
they say she killed you. put a pillow over your head until you stopped twitching. and when she was done, she sang a quiet lullaby as if to sing you to sleep. they say she got drunk and took some rope and made herself a necklace. they say that her body is found hanging from the bayberry tree behind the masen house, swaying like a broken branch snapped under the weight of a storm. the grass is dry as the drought allows, but there’s still been a storm brewing. they say they left her there, too afraid to touch her sinner’s body. they were wrong about one thing. she didn’t kill you.
Bowed down to get the kings overthrown
And I’m all alone and the fire grows
you bury her body yourself. you’re just a boy and you bury your mama’s body under that tree. those bruises never seemed to fade. you haunt that house and they say it’s haunted by a boy with flamin’ hair like his mama’s. you play the part until you become a man and are strong enough to fan the flames. you toss mud at their cars while they’re sittin’ in the church on sundays and leave matchstick crosses on their doorsteps that catch the sun as if on fire. they tell their children to pass that house as quick as possible and never to look, they musn’t look. you’ve left the rope on the tree and they say that your mama still hangs from it some nights. a lullaby filters through the windows during the day, a piano that needs tuning, and a haunted voice rising like a wilted harmony against the dissonance.
Oh my god
Please help me, knee deep in the river tryin’ to get clean