The day I found out what you did
Silver lockets might as well have been
piles of ash flowing between my fingers
Nothing was beautiful
in my basement, I curled up on a beanbag chair full of stuffing
And slept until it hurt less
It wasn’t just the assault allegations
Those were pretty bad, sure
It was the quiet whispers and casual mumbles that
You’d slept with fans
Young ones
And even if everything was above board, I couldn’t help but think
If I had lined up for hours or run into you in the right kind of club
With padded walls and restraints on the benches
Would you have ignored me because I wasn’t pretty enough
Or worse, paid attention because I was
We are not strawberries to snatch from the roadsides of life
And now that I am older and past what Orwell called “the wild rose beauty” stage
And I am a rosehip
If ever I was a rose, which is doubtful
All I can see are the lines and rows of beautiful tough mysterious Fey young women that
Keep cropping up in your work
and kept swirling in adoring eddies around your table at conventions
You knew better
You had the power
You could crush any one of them in the palm of your hand
Who would believe a young nanny over a famous author
You used to be the person I most wanted to have lunch with
Now all I want
Is to write better than you.
I may never be as famous; odds of that are high and stacked against me
But I can push myself harder and climb higher and feel something deeper
And if I can’t, well,
I’m at least going to try.
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