The best of times and
the worst of times
considering all that she has learned.
New truths find themselves
burned black under her skin and all she want is
to go back to
she knew. Was she ever
she thought she was in your eyes?
Was she ever
the bright shining star
you made her feel?
How was she supposed to be
certain of the things
she had once been certain of,
when the last shreds of naivete
are stripped away and leave her
with this barren confusion?
How can one be pregnant with barrenness? How might it work?
Do you see how she distracts herself inside her own head? How she doesn’t want to focus on the failure, focus on the disgust?
she made herself believe
she was special, didn’t she?
But she wouldn’t have,
except that you told her she was.
But how many of us
How many of us
were the only one?
Just how many of us
were the light in the darkness?
she was, she was, she was, she still believes she was…
Once, she learned that
her Listener was not as loving
or as kind as she pretended to be.
Her act had been a panacea
until it had been figured out.
Once, she thought she was brilliant and talented,
but it turns out
that’s just from people having been polite.
Do you even notice the spilled ink blood sweat and tears of what she labors into the world? Does it register on the scales you hold in your dead and bloated hands? Do you swallow what she says on your mortal tongue?
Once, she was the High Priestess
but only to a false god.
she wanted you to sing her name.
she used to want to hear it on your lips
again and again.
Now she wants to write it down,
tear it up,
never taste it again.
Never let you taste it again.
What kind of trauma does it have to be,
to want to take that away?