How To Become A Myth

how to become a myth

I.

fix yourself some feathered wings of wax and flame,

so you may fly high and find little care for the world you left behind.

your backlogged childhood memories

seeping back into your mind

like the salt of the sea drinks in the smooth, youthful lines of your flesh,

where you hide your scars under weighed up smiles,

like counting calories,

and you find yourself falling- falling

into the ocean’s liquid silver embrace,

and finally,

you realise what freedom is.

you flew too close to the sun, little firebrand,

were you afraid to get burnt?

II.

everyone remembers you as the daughter

of the man who married his own mother,

but no one talks about your courage anymore.

no one talks about how you held your head so high, as you walked into that tomb,

because you knew your sister was in the crowd,

so you put on a brave face for your little sister,

hoping the pain wouldn’t show.

pain. not fear.

and you knew she would be crying,

so you couldn’t cry too.

it was your time to weep,

but you had all the time in the world to weep now,

as the stone walls sealed tight

and darkness crawled in.

sometimes we can still hear you sobbing in that tomb,

deep under rock and bones,

carried off by the wind.

you opened your mouth and brought the whole world to its knees,

but you knew a bird that sings too loud would get shot down eventually.

III.

she had eyes as hard as iron,

but skin as fickle as the space between peacock feathers,

where the light gets in,

because he made her that way.

she loved him and hated that she loved him,

she hated him and loved that she hated him,

and she was a mess because of him,

but she loved it that way,

because she knew no other love than this-

some days she liked to watch handsome men walk by the large window of her favourite coffee shop-

holding a newspaper or a book,

and wondered if they could be any different

to the man that keeps her captive with the diamond on her finger.

your life is one messed up tragedy, but you’re a queen.

remember, he can’t take that crown from your head no matter how hard he tried.

IV.

how do you wish to be remembered,

maiden of the meadow and queen of the dead men walking?

do you find power at its best as you walk among the dead,

soothing their minds,

tossing coins onto the riverbank,

hoping the extra dozen will go unnoticed,

because even as you walk the land of the dead by dusk

you have a kind heart,

and a gentle spirit that could pity any man.

or, do you find power at its best as you walk among the flowers,

tying string around a new bouquet of lavender wings and marigold roots,

hoping your touch will help them rot,

because even as you walk the land of the living by dawn,

you wear a crown of thorns

and sit on a throne of skulls by night.

you feel power in both realms-

the realm of the dead and the realm of the living-

but never in between.

what’s that old saying again?

as above, so below.

V.

your face launched a thousand ships,

and your lovers promises aroused thousands of men to their spears,

and while they called you a cheater and traitor

in both city and camp,

secretly they all whispered their thanks for the temptation of your lips,

because men love war.

they knew nothing else,

but of what the battlefield taught them,

and here they stand in your backyard,

hoping you refuse to let them in,

so blood can be spilled over a canvas that is reused over time,

with different paintbrushes and artists filling the hollow space,

trying to capture your beauty between the strokes of ink and lines of charcoal.

give them a show, give the gods a show,

give them something to die for.

VI.

how you could possibly love the man who striped you of your homeland?

well, maybe because you never really had a home.

you were handed to a stranger’s bed at the age of fourteen,

and even though you tried so hard to love him,

he beat you every night,

and every year your womb would fail,

so he’d beat you some more,

until you could no longer trust a man.

so, how could you possibly trust the man known for his cruelty?

well, maybe because he wasn’t really that cruel,

at least, not around you.

perhaps he was gentle and kind when you were first brought to him,

and perhaps he knew to keep you at arm’s length,

so you would come to his bed willingly,

and every night he’d hold you close,

but not like a dagger to his belt,

but like a flower to his chest.

you were shocked to find that he smiles in his sleep.

perhaps he is still just a child,

dreaming of escaping those swollen beaches,

dreaming of taking you home by the arm,

as his bride,

not his slave.

what if you left Troy behind?

what would of happened if you ran away like lovers do?

that’s the thing with men, briseis-

they can’t help loving fame more.

VII.

we are all myths,

in our own way,

but rather than sketched on paper with ink

we are beings of flesh and bone written in the stars-

whether put there by gods or fickle memories.

do not fear, dear child,

whether your tale lies at the bottom of the ocean

or etched on a tombstone,

a myth can never be forgotten.