Behold, my murderer stands before me,
Yet he sees me not. He blabbers on to some
Unsuspecting peasant boy who hasn't a
Care for anything that is being said.
My man stands regal, dominating; his
Possessive little mind analyzing every inch
Of the conversation, which revolves around
Me. He describes me exactly as he remembers me,
Even if his memory isn't altogether truthful.
He thinks of me as unfaithful and unappreciating,
When, in fact, the truth is the exact opposite.
I loved him passionately, and I love him still,
But he never caught on to my love. He never really
Understood me, loved me, cherished me.
No, instead all was just a play for my
Money. When I outlived my use, he
Slaughtered me without a second thought.
No, he never loved me. I meant nothing to him.
But wait! All is not in despair. I'll get my
Revenge, and he will get what is due to him.
--Note: This was a response to Robert Jordan's poem "My Last Duchess"
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