The Eel
She merits stolen words as gems that fall blind from a dead duke's hand.
It is not I who crafted a lie, but given thrice the chance to change I chose only to remain as I am.
A cast of shade and fevered chills birth a labored breath that whispers my name; it is on these days when you are ill and the sky is gray that you are closest to me.
My hide, loose and useless, when it bore my simple soul.
But on you a cured flesh that shines smart across your breast.
I hope you know, it is not me.
Not one drop of my being remains in that gilded corpse.
You may pull it close and softly murmur sweet tones of gold and rose, but I will not hear you.
You who pulled me from the water to sate your hunger.
You who plucked me from the vine to hear me scream.
You who would claim to not see your reflection in the stream.
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Posted Aug 1, 2019, 2:36 AM UTC
Whoah. This hit hard about an old life situation for me.
I appreciate the way your work is in conversation with the old myths - the selkie, and I think the Hesperides?
I had to slow down to read this; it was intricate. I felt like that was a good thing.