the futility of wanting (you)
give me your ‘true love’ or your passion or your obsession,
your kindness or your valour or your extravagant gifts,
your unasked-for concern and your unnecessary devotion,
in the end, it will all have meant
nothing
when you’re faced with her,
who so effortlessly occupies
a spot in your hearts,
so you welcome her into your lives
without question,
the way you never welcomed me
me, who had to fight with my life on the line
for your pity or your ardour or even your obsession -
never for my own sake, always for yours
because I wanted to save you
from a terrible fate - the end of the world -
at the cost of myself:
my beauty, my sanity, my heart, my life
there was always one more thing to give up,
and somehow I always had to be the one to do so;
you adopted me into a life that crushed me,
and never showed me my worth
all because of a grief that belonged to everyone but me—
something you never allowed me to touch
I was a girl too, but it always felt like
I owed you the world
for ‘saving me’ from my wretched life,
never mind how much I had to give up for you all
and how much I had to pretend
in this miserable new life
(this gilded cage I could not escape)
nobody ever asked if I wanted
to pay such a heavy price,
or to live a life in which nobody knew me,
or what I truly wanted —
to die a natural death just once,
after living an ordinary life
with nobody’s future resting in my hands,
and having been loved for who I was,
instead of what I was
(fake sister, replacement daughter, hated lover, unwilling saviour, unknowing mage, heroine, a thousand times a villainess, and always a sacrifice)
perhaps you never wanted me at all
only a beautiful doll
who dresses up and dies when you ask her to,
who ruins herself to spare your pride,
who gives up everything before you even ask
including, and especially, who she is
give me your guilt or your regret or your tears
when you realize that I was your intended saviour (never her),
that there was always space enough in your heart for me after all,
that you had loved me at the cost of myself
what will it matter, in the end?
when all is said and done
and the whole world has burned
he will turn back time as he always has
and I’ll be the only one
who has to pantomime this extravagant girl once again
in the shape of the one you recognize,
begging on her knees
for even a scrap of your affection
or a moment of stolen joy
while you sleep peacefully, perhaps, or wretchedly,
tormented by dreams beneath Laila’s thrall
I will fall, once more, in front of my natural enemy
and rise again, for the umpteenth time
to shoulder a fate that should never have been mine alone,
yet somehow has only ever been mine to know
