I sometimes feel like a naughty child
condemned for having picked up the pieces
that you were handing me in the dead of night
as the watchful world around us slept.
Condemned for lightly erasing your memory
from the spaces between the letters
on my page where I keep you so neatly
tucked away beyond prying eyes
Condemned for rising amidst grief
when the jagged rocks beneath me
offered such alluring love as the
snakes gathered readying for my blood.
Condemned that it was me, so plain
among the sea of princesses, just me that your own, condemned because I knew them…
… and they never knew me, and how that changed the balance of envy.
Karen Hayward ©2018
Image and words