Medusa

I used to be a goddess,

but now they call me a monster.

Like I was born with these strange, sickening, snakes in my hair.

But once, my hair was just hair.

Still soft enough for the wind to comb through.

I used to be a girl who believed in the gods, and mercy.

But then came the curse.

A hiss where my laughter used to live,

scales where skin used to be warm.

Now men, who call themselves warriors, travel miles for the glory of my silence.

When they look at me, they see what they fear,

not my face, but their own stillness.

If I am a monster,

it is because I survived

being made into one.