Woman in the Circus of Swords

Woman in the Circus of Swords


It’s frustrating,
  I don’t like myself when I’m angry,
And the words I chose, with their harsh depose,
Led me wonder why ever you stay,
  Until I dreamt of another woman

I’d paid my ticket to the circus,
Strolled in entry past the Carney sideshow,
I could not wear the giant’s ring,
Tiny Tina, too petite a thing,
The Torch spit flaming kerosene,
I felt no pity for these ordinary beings

Until there was Ostara, Queen of the Blades,
Dressed in spandex, contorting on her stage,
Her Barker addressed us as she climbed into her box,
Then closed its lid down, securing its locks,
All this upon two sturdy three foot saw horses,
As the barker lashed about seven rapiers with force

The first he thrust in her middle,
The next six in all places she could not hide,
He spoke again,
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Ostara is not hurt,
  Nor is this illusion, Ostara is a contortionist,
  She rearranges herself with each sword I put in,
  The lid on her box is clear glass, she is unharmed,
Come see!
  For a mere dollar, come up and see,
  Ostara, Queen of the Blades, for yourself!”

I stepped up, I paid

I looked down,
  And saw that you had become she in there,
Looking back through your ‘Where’s your sympathy?’ eyes,
  As rather than leaving me,
You instead learned long ago to live
  In the box I’d put you,
Contorting by necessity, your life, your will
  You bodily, all around my barbs,
That by my harsh and cutting tongue,
  I could no longer hurt you