Really clever, thoughtful. A wonderful piece of work.
He sent me to a nunnery, either convent or whorehouse
Did not matter, as long as it was away, the great Elizabethan
F— off for a tormented soul’s manic pixie dream girl.
There was nowhere I could end up but drowned in flowers
And strewing herbs, the taste of rue in my mouth
While men argue over who loved me best, not one
Stopped pursuing ghosts to save me from tree climbing
And rambled hummings of virginity and death.
The problem with Shakespeare’s women is we love men
Who mistake sleep for death, daggers in our chest
For a final cold union, or washing our hands of blood
That will always stain. Or agree the sun
Is the moon in perfect obedience, or puppeteered
Near the solstice by Oberon and Titania. Either way
We are damned, doomed marionettes; none of us daring
To snap the string but me, in…
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