medusa looks in the mirror and hates what she sees.
in her eyes are a thousand heroes cement-cold in the setting sun,
a thousand ballads cursing her name.
she wishes on every statue she can't bear to look at
that one day, she can sleep without remembering how their hands trembled,
how the word "monster" sounded from their lips,
how she ran between forgotten heroes, the whisper of breeze a death sentence--
for her innocence or for the fool who came searching, she will never know.
medusa looks in the mirror and hates what she wants.
she wants to wake up a stone girl in her stone world,
unfeeling, mercifully blind to her sins.
it's a coward's wish, the easy way out,
a shroud covering a blood-stained life--
she shouldn't forget. for the families she's broken, the lives she's taken,
she stays alive, makes herself open her eyes every morning,
look at the statues,
medusa looks in the mirror and hates what she feels.
the pain in her chest never fades.
she lives in fear, each day a question,
a plea to gods who won't forgive her.
so when perseus arrives, she closes her eyes,
imagines a head of slate, a body of quartz, a heart of granite
and the breaths come easier.