Pallor

I am not the
Fair maiden.
I am not the
fairest in all the land.

The pastiness of
This skin can only
Be the result of a
Black heart. Not pumping
The vital source
Of richness we all need
To be human.

I lurk in shadows
Only because the light
Is too much.

I am not a flower
I am the mold
Grown in the darkness
Fed by the tears
I’ve cried alone.

I’ve spent my life in
The victim’s cave.
But I am no damsel
In distress. Not waiting
For someone to save me.

I am the witch
Never to be understood.
Living in a land of black magic.
Cooking over the billowing
Fire which I have made
Under my own feet.

I sit quietly
Devise a plan
And strike like
A snake who
Hasn’t fed in weeks.

I am not the fair maiden.
I do not believe in fairness.
The pastiness of my skin
Is the effect of my cause.
Not living among the living.
I am surviving my own poisonous
Heart.

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