Mary Boleyn

I may as well have no will.
It is cruel of God to give women volition,
for our entire lives we strangle it,
choke it back,
wish it to forget everything it wants to say.
God should have muted us,
made us pretty dolls with painted mouths
that never open,
wrapped in velvet and silk,
for I will die of blood loss
from biting my tongue
against this need to express want.
God should have smothered our desire,
for I cannot murder it with my own hands.
Let me return to Hever, to my bastard children,
so we can walk through gardens
of foxgloves, honeysuckle,
and ride our horses
with no destinations.
Let me lead my quiet life in Rochford
with my third attempt at love,
away from my brother the sodomite,
my uncle Lucifer, and my sister
whose only future is the scaffold.