Do you think me a dishmaiden?
Leaving upon the counters and the hearth the remanents of meals in the form of mess upon our earthen wares.
A gallery of neglect personified by your slothly habits upon our sink.
I am not your dishmaiden, I am not even your maiden yet you leave me labour in excess within our shared spaces.
Be greatful that thine true maiden lies elsewhere lest she be horrified by the sight of your betrayal
Dish maiden? I think not, I have as much a claim to this hovel as you, yet my dishes are always polished and your work seemingly never started.
If I am not your dishmaiden, then for whome do these dishes wait? Surely not you?
You who have rested these past weeks with no thoughts of work? Who has barely set sight upon the dishless cupboard?
Even if I were a dishmaiden, I would not be yours, you who leaves spoiled food in the pantry in containers who have not seen light since the earliest signs of last autumn.
You have neither the coin nor the competence for a dishmaiden, so I do what I must, and leave the monuments to your incompetence where they lay.
I am not your dishmaiden, do not think of me that way.












