A lament of My Boleyn. A poem and lecture.

I fear resentment is taking over my soul.

Not resentment of you, but of the rejection on your tongue, outweighed and made untrue by the lie in your eyes, and the hurt in your mind.

You know of what I speak.

A defense mechanism you've created, to deflect suitors you might see as usurpers and to catch those you see as the fish for your basket, or the horse for your bridle. No matter if they don't fit in the basket or no matter how loose or tight wears the bridle, for you are the usurper after all has come to pass.

Of much older men. Or most disturbed young boys. Those you trust, those you want. Yet raze to the mud and water. Drive mad, and away. Like you do the ones who trust and want you. In decidedly different manners.

You elude the ones who may be interested in you, and pursue the ones who may not be, in order to pick for yourself the apple which gleams a most deemable quality of red in your eye.

Though you can't decide which pretty apple you want, for you have taken many from the full bushel of perfectly fine and tasty apples.

You are a selfish, greedy she-ling. You are an untrustworthy greed-driven she-ling. You deserve no love. Yet you find it of the people you ignore. Waster. Litterbug. Liar. You over-theatric dramawife. Heartbreaker. Barracuda. My Lady. My Guinevere. My Boleyn.