I ate of his fruit, crimson and mature.
The flesh delectable to my touch, spongy
with juice waiting to emerge from underneath.
I ate of the flesh, you ate of the flesh,
yet I am condemned to carry the blame.
We were full of the fruit,
its sustenance reviving us from our naivete,
for a time we both were alike.
Alike in our shame. Alike in our loneliness.

Then you burdened me with your legacy, watched me
endure he pain of our race, enduring your sons.
All to provide more for you.  And yet,
when I tried to lessen the strain
and stand strong, you called me Amazon. Accused me
of destroying my own creations, of hating
your kind. When I raised my swords
in your unholy wars, riding bare breasted into battle,
I exposed myself to prove who I was.
You ran in your shame, blaming fear, accusing me
of aberration.

You called my songs false, saying my voice was
temptation. The hazards you failed to steer around
were blamed on me, yet you did not hear my
siren of warning.  You have tried to tame me;
refusing food, sleep, clothing.
Calling me a shrew when I refuse your laws.

We both ate of the fruit, the sweet innocence
turned to sour dogma.
We both caught the scent, drifting
through the wilderness, calling us out.
Yet I am the one that carries the burden,
must always stand behind and to the side.
I ate of the flesh, you ate of the flesh;
it turned to rot within me.


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