Snow White

I take a little bite every day

Of the poisoned apple that you gave me,

And die a little bit when I do

Still smiling, though, when I see that

You are happy


My insides burn, my heartbeat slows down

And ghosts come to bedside at night

Believing I am one of their kind –

No matter, because I see that

You are happy


My skin is grey and my hands are weak,

My tears have dried inside of my eyes,

I think that, in secret from us both, I hate us both,

But I forget it when I see that

You are happy

When I have finished eating myself

Alive, what with will I feed your joy,

When I have nothing left of me to destroy

For you to remain at ease,

And happy?


To keep you this way, I must swallow poison;

To earn your “love”, I must kill myself,

But slowly, so you’d watch me and see

Me lose for you the Love and Power

I was born with;


What you call happiness isn’t it, I feel;

And what you call love’s merely greed,

Your power is a fortress of fear,

And those you lead, you’re leading through hell

To a deeper hell


Take back the crown of gold you bestowed

On me, for giving up my garland of light;

I do not want yet to go to sleep,

Not even in a coffin made of diamonds

And dreams


I’m sorry, but I’m going to go now;

I don’t know where but I do know why:

I want to learn, to touch and to feel

True happiness, not this of your kind,

And maybe


I will

What Is It?

I hide my head

Inside my shoulders

And tightly hold myself

To stay upright


‘What is it

About me,’

I begin

To wonder,


‘That makes me feel

So small,

So full

Of self-disgust?’



Of the secrets

I won’t tell

Thus dwarfs me?’



Of the lies

I told

Keeps me thus chained?’


I lower to the ground

My eyes,

Dark, wounded,



And almost run,


I know I couldn’t

Run away


From shame:

It floods me




I drown in it


It’s all there is

To feel


‘What is it,’

I wonder,

‘I don’t know

About me,


That makes me

So deeply,

So relentlessly



Is it the fact

That I am


Devoid of beauty


Of any kind,


And unknown

To man?


Is it that, like the air

Which feeds my blood,

I am



With every kind of dirt,


And unknown

To man?


Or is it, maybe,

That I am a woman,

Whose hands and heart

Are cold, incapable of love?


Or is it simply

That I am too human?

With hundred strengths,

And weaknesses, and doubts?