The Stepmother Responds to Allegations

She was never my daughter.
My very skin fights to be
Free of me, that soft flap
Beneath my chin growing
Further and further from my
Bones each night, the planes of
My cheeks sacrificing their
Smoothness to pucker repulsion
At the woman I’ve become.
She was a wanted child.

My husband’s beloved
Strained and bled for the girl who
Danced out of the womb like
She was born perfect,
The brutal beauty of blood on snow
Bred from the gasps and moans of
Parents whose hands clasped damp
And forever.
When forever took his wife he
Took my hand instead but when he
Said, I love you,
He meant, I miss her.
And the hand he gives me is always cold
And waning. Each day I
Fix eyes on dim glass
Because my reflection is the
Years passing and the
Slick black of my fears is the
Color of his child’s hair and when the
Girl smiles the mirror shows the
Smile of her mother and my
Husband is lost.

I am lost.
She was never my daughter,
Because my place here is
Stifled under shadows of
Past love and perfection.
I wear her mother’s cloak on
Grey days, but my fingers fumble
With the collar brooch
Drawing blood the color of
Dead things, two drops black on snow
My unborn children slither from me
In the same way and my
Husband’s hand wanes further.

She was never my daughter
But she was a symbol of the
Many ways in which I failed
And she was beautiful.

My eyes on the mirror
Saturate seconds in years.
My reflection is cold
And I am a woman of flesh
And blood pumping
Warm and firm.

Is it really so wicked to
Want to live?