Dear O —
I’ll tend to the monsters at home and leave
you to yours — the quick flash of silver
rippling under a blue so blue it must be a trick.
Mine arrive at my door, dropping their
greed ripened in jars at my feet, their mouths
leaking the sweet poison of disaster.
Even my hair is a dark trophy they lay
claim to: spread across their pillows,
wrapped around their wrists.
A hundred and eight sets of eyes watching
my neck. Thinking swan. Thinking snap,
and mine. Widow, wonder, wench.
Remember when you called me goddess?
Half-lit girl with starfish in her hair.
Night caught in your teeth like prophecy.
Who thinks of that girl now?
The one who dreams of shark’s teeth
and brine. Who thinks of the restless
queen she has become, her anger —
a blackened hive missing all
of its honey, wrung free of gold?
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