A little girl lost in the woods I was
No light, no dove, no kindly man in white
To lead me home and the river to cross
So I stayed in that darkening wood.

I grew up with the desperate blinding rush
Of blood in the heart's loud tunnels
The blinding instinct of need that gave flush
To my life; this you must understand.

I was young, and I grew up, but I never forgot
Why else a dwelling of a child's dream?
A futile replica of what I sought
Dreams I had but chimeras now dwell.

They came eagerly once they saw the fantasy
Lost little things with no guide like me
The house put to rest any distrust or improbablity,
They might have felt; little creatures

I pitied them, they might have become me
If not now, then soon, then eventually.
I envied their innocence and my envy did not flee
So I devoured them before they could devour me.

Then they came, the simple fledging of a male,
The shrewdness, cunning of a girl.
Children grow up, remember? Stepmama should fear
I ought to have known; but you already know my end.

She reminds me too much of me; I should have
Eaten her first, not her silly brother
But she was too like me and I was deaf
To my brain's pleas that I ought to

Not answer the heart's immortal longings
Maternal warfare, maternal pride.
And where does that get me? Such yearnings?
Singing, high keenings in an oven meant for that bite.

I was old and she was young and she into me did grow
My naivete lost, was thus found, despite my age
And my now cooking brains and eyes did not follow
The ruthlessness that characterised a younger mind.

So while my eyes melt in the searing heat
My tongue broil in the wetness of my mouth
They flee with my gold on fast little feet
And irony on anger, a white dove arrives now

To lead them home to their faithless father
Who has no use now for a thrifty wife
And casts her out like he did before
For now he has immortality and his pride.

He will frequent his brothels and his wines
Abandoning his children in a different wood
And when he does them a favour and finally dies
Over their inheritance they will fight.

Another lost child she would have been
Should have, would have, she will be one now.
Before he devours her, she shall devour him
That same brother she killed to preserve once.

While I curl up like a fetus in my red hot tomb
Awaiting reckoning, the fires beyond this fire
Strangely secure in this burning womb
As I recall the candied house and the retellings

Of the story of the little children lost;
I burn to my innermost core,
What was forgotten by most:
I was once a little girl lost.

This poem was written when I was 16. However I have tinkered with some of the lines but it's still basic, typical, angsty, juvenile stuff. Well to me anyway:(. *sulk*

I believe I was hugely inspired by a faerie tale anthology for adults. The name of the book escapes me right now, but it was edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling.

If I remember correctly, that particular poem that inspired me is written from the witch's perspective as well. However the William Blake references and allusions were mine as well as the dominant motif.

That anthology set me off on a whole series of fairy tale poems. Bleah. I'm embarassed to think about the whole thing now.