does he fancy himself a hero? fresh-faced
and fresh from the box, standing shining
wrapped in prophecy and the toys of gods—
he, toy of god, tool, pawn. he is
your vengeance, last chance to remove yourself forever
from
filth.

from me. here i am. i walk the forests and the fountains,
the caves and the mountains. i take the form of cloudlike
demons, like my mother, like you—
although not to hear you speak, web-maker, war-peddler—
i and my sisters, we fly. we are free.

you would take that from me?

i am hatred, hated—i am odd, i am earth. i am all too
human, like my sisters, like you—you, proud, too good for man.
untouchable.

there's no need to gloat.

i know, and i see--
i am you, you are me. and you, with your pet with his shiny shield, you
come lurking, come lurking. you think to
destroy me, as if it would do any
good—you would kill us. you would give away our chance
to fit in, to remake the world—
but don't you understand? sister, self, snakeless—you are
socially acceptable. you are our reason for being—
you make them see past the oddity, our sheer insanity—
you were always better at public speaking. use it. convince them...
and yet—

to you, it's all the image; it's the forty-foot marble you, idyllic,
guarded by all and understood by none—not any more. i am
a footnote, a curio, an oddity, a war trophy—because i am to be conquered,
not embraced. i cannot understand. we are one, and you would have me
ruined.

i am your perpetual bad hair day,
your embarrassment. and you would sell our power for the sake of
your name—spoken in worshipping whispers by the people.
by our people. they eat it up,
awed by young heroes and propaganda--
you are the first of millions, of cutthroat businesswomen.
you will let them run the world, as long as they praise your pedestal.

and you wonder that i would turn the world to stone.