I think I understand Medea a little more now.
Look at my hands.
When the hands that would rather scratch out your own eyes
do harm, what is there to do?
When you hurt them,
where is there to go but the gods?
I have to rein myself in.
I’ve got the blood of everyone on my hands.
I’ve been painting with it, off in a peaceful delusion.
While I’ve smeared it over my friends like a benediction,
their tears make no mark.
I’ve got to get it under control.
I clutch so hard that every pretty bird chokes.
I am not their friend.
Why would you do this?
Throw yourself on what passes for mercy
at my hands.
Blood and poison, spewing out of me.
Life and death.
Don’t let it touch them.
I think you think that’s what love is,
Opening your chest for the knife. But this knife
wants to say no.
Oh, the things these hands could do.
Does a snake know it has venom?
Or does it simply protect itself?
I’ve got poison dripping from my teeth.
You’re always prying my fingers from your cliff edges.
I just thought you wanted me to fall.
You should.
Lorna Fraser is a Museum Studies MA student from Glasgow. She mainly writes fiction, but can find time for many kinds of storytelling, from poetry to acting to dancing in her kitchen. Find her on Twitter: @sing_o_clio or Instagram: @sing_o_clio