Thu, 10/17/2019 - 23:44 -- Seren


With her sweet words and flaxen curls, soft skin and kind eyes,

Was beautiful, ethereal in her manner and dress, memorable in the minds of all who met her.

And this was her downfall.

She drew eyes. Reveled in it. Sought out suitors, emphasized her best features,

In fast-flashing rooms, by quiet countertops, a drink in her hand and a burning down her throat.

Did she deserve it?

A regular night with a regular man, attractive, and she’s taking her heels off in his doorway.

She sees pictures of another woman, but she’s caught up in the moment and follows him further inside.

They ask, ‘How could she not know?’

The deed is done. She leaves, and the scent of her perfume lingers, sour in the light of the hallway.

In the morning, there were rumors.

The woman was Someone. Medusa was not. Someone’s words would always muffle Medusa’s own.

But she tried. And her tongue grew venomous, with every word gone unanswered, every silent glance.

Her curls grew unkempt, clumped, winding in the air.

There was advice, from those who knew her. Scorn, from those who did not. Neither comforted her.

Her skin turned dry, like scales, healthy glow made dull.

Some followed her home to her lair, seeking to slay her, cameras recording, red lights blinking.

Her eyes changed the most, harsh, cold, like stone.

Her story was no longer hers. Her person no longer hers. Every bit of her they could take they did.

Nothing was left.

Beautiful Medusa, fair Medusa, hardened and weathered, hollow, scathing. Powerful.

She was born anew in the ashes of a fallen marriage and wondered if it was a curse or a blessing.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741