Wrinkled hag, jilted crone; I sit here alone
with dull eyes that stare, as bones creak in this chair.
It was he, it was he: He who did this to me.
Now grubby, grey lace spills all over this place,
from bulbous knees to floor, skimming knuckles which claw
and so desperately clutch at this craved nothing much.
Fermented by torment, detestable garment:
once such pure, lily white, now this odious sight.
Listless hate lines my gut, starved collar bones jut.
Will anyone stoop, graze my lips, resolute -
earnest in the flush of a youthful crush?
No one now; no one then; no one ever again.
None will gently curl locks that fall and unfurl;
this dry brittle hair would snap under such care
and these thin flaking lips are neglected by Kiss;
only fit to moan in this place I call home.
Desires left, maligned, a banquet undined;
its consumption forbade by the one left, betrayed.
Hanging cobwebs descending in this Hell, never ending
brush my arms and my face, atrophied and disgraced.
I keep captive here, as months turn to years
but this room is no solace. No, starved and sexless,
I sink here as stone with the life love postponed,
kept, barely, afloat by this last desperate hope.
Resplendent, fair Star, gazed upon from afar,
chaste, confederate child, unmarked, undefiled.
Feather light, youth's delight, while I suffer this plight,
she must remain headstrong, immune her life long
to this pointless abhorrence (they call love, I call grievance.)
She must never give in to that first deadly sin
for with great expectation comes most devastation.
Untried prisoner here, I do my time;
to love too much my only crime.
Inspired by Carol Ann Duffy