Smear yourself with the
Blood of
Something you killed
(oh, never your own)
And cry foul.

Point your finger at the
Dog who is just a dog
The one who adored you,
The one you ran off, heart-starved,
With whiplash words into the cold.

Paint yourself scarlet
For your village idiots.
Raise your sycophantic mob.
Pass out pitchforks
And torches
And front row seats
Like party favors.

Graciously, you give him a head start.
It’s only amicable, you say.
But I know
It takes time
To carve tear tracks into a stone face,
Rehearse your best lines,
Make sure they get your good side.

(funny, I think I’ve heard this story
before — same shit, different dog)

No one believes it when I say
The princess has no heart.
She just wants a pelt
Under her feet
Since she can’t have
The dog there to kick
Anymore.

You’re the cleverest
Of villains, though,
Weaving cloth-of-lies
To dress him up
Like a mad wolf.

And when he fights
For himself,
For what is left,
When he summons
The monster within
To protect himself from
The monster in your mirror,
You will howl in victory
At how well he played along
And gobble up the last scraps
Of the truth
Before anyone sees.

Ah, too late.

I saw.

~Melody Wingfield, 2017


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