I’m sorry for the pedestals I placed you all on,
with the utmost unrealistic hope
But I just couldn’t help admiring you, and I made you look like a trophy;
Now, who else would have thought of raising you up
As triumphantly as I did?
Lately your trophy has gone askew
And the statue doesn’t even look like you
It resembles the crumbled face of someone
Whom lost himself to a battle.
So I placed you on the shelf, and you still held importance
I forced your mangled figure onto that shelf
Because you still lingered in my mind.
I covered you up with books about how I really didn’t care
Books I wrote, forced into a state of emotionlessness—now that’s something we share.
Then one day the light hit my forgotten golden trophy,
So I knocked down the books, I noticed you—the pedestal was gone.
I sighed with relief but it still wasn’t over
I took you outside and I buried you in the deepest hole in the Earth.
The next year came, and I didn’t feel the same,
My hope was finally set free.
Still, I longed to avenge you, if only to be Queen of your thoughts.
Then I turned to my window and on the ledge I saw
A boy was staring at me.
I felt something rise up from beneath my feet;
My hands and body coated in gold.
It was then I realized what was happening:
The statue on the pedestal…
is now me.
--Natalie Klett
